


The Driver

by FriendofCarlotta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Convenience Store Clerk Castiel, Getaway Driver Dean Winchester, Inspired by "Drive" (2011), Kid Fic, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Minor Character Death, Past Castiel/Meg Masters, Single father Castiel, Stunt Driver Dean Winchester, Teen Pregnancy and Parenthood (mentioned), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Waiter Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26312632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: Dean Winchester is a mechanic and occasional movie stunt driver living in LA. Most people don't know that Dean also drives getaway cars for armed robberies.For months now, Dean has been nursing a crush on his neighbor, a single father named Castiel. When a violent turf war between Dean's boss and a rival gangster threatens to compromise the safety of Castiel and his son, Dean makes a choice that will change his life forever.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 108
Kudos: 209
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Nightcall

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! I'm so happy you're here!
> 
> If you come on this ride with me, you can expect car chases, suspense, sweet Dean/Cas moments, cute kid sass, but also quite a lot of sadness. Just remember this is tagged "Angst With a Happy Ending," and I mean every word (both the angst and the happy ending).
> 
> This fic is based on "Drive" (2011), but you don't have to have seen it for the fic to make sense, and it's by no means a carbon copy of the movie. 
> 
> I have to say a HUGE THANK YOU to [tiamatv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv) who, as always, did a wonderful beta job, was an amazing cheerleader and generally helped make this a thing I'm proud to share. Thank you also to [duckyboos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos), whose expertise added a touch more realism to certain events, and whose squealing and excitement about this fic was super encouraging. (Both of them are also amazing authors. Check them out!)
> 
> One last thing: This story is complete and will update weekly - or whenever I get done editing each chapter.
> 
> Enjoy! As Kaminsky says, "I'm gonna show you where it's dark, but have no fear."

**Prologue**

_I’m giving you a nightcall to tell you how I feel_

_I want to drive you through the night, down the hills_

_I’m gonna tell you something you don’t want to hear_

_I’m gonna show you where it’s dark, but have no fear_

_– Kaminsky, Nightcall_

“You give me a time and place; I give you a five-minute window. Those five minutes, I’m yours. Whatever goes down, I’m yours. A minute on either side, you’re on your own.”

The words fall from Dean’s lips with practiced ease as he leans against the Impala’s passenger side and takes in the view below. He pulled over to take the call, and he couldn’t have chosen a better spot. He’s on a lookout point off Mulholland Drive, high up in the hills. Below him, the maze of streets and freeways threads through the city, outlined by a constant pulse of pinprick lights. The concrete giants of downtown rise up in the hazy distance, polluting the night sky with their fluorescent glare.

The voice on the line starts to object, but the five-minute rule is a big part of what’s kept Dean out of trouble for years now. It’s not up for debate. “You won’t be able to reach me at this number again,” he says, then hangs up.

He drops the phone onto the gravel and steps on it with the heel of his boot — once, twice, three times — until the screen is cracked beyond repair and slivers of microchip are scattered across the ground.

Satisfied, he gathers up the pieces and seals them inside a zip-lock bag that he stuffs into his black duffle, along with the pencil-marked map of LA still sitting on the Impala’s hood.

When no traces of his presence remain, Dean takes one last look at the view. He takes in the lights of the houses below, wondering about the story each one tells. A family, having a late dinner together? A couple, curling up in front of the TV? Or someone like Dean, with no one but his own thoughts for company?

With a kick at the gravel and a shake of the head, Dean tears himself away and slides into the driver’s seat.

His fingers curl instinctively around the familiar shape of the steering wheel. Life, for him, has been a long string of trial and error, confusion and disappointment. But this, he knows how to do.

So he drives.

***

**PART I**

Dean’s apartment is on the fourth floor of a run-down brownstone in the less photogenic corner of Echo Park. Like too many buildings in LA, it’s topped with a garish billboard advertising some pea-brained blockbuster.

This particular movie was one he worked on, but the stunts weren’t especially creative or memorable. Most likely, that was true of the rest of the script too.

He pulls his Baby into the underground garage, relishing the way her low rumble echoes off the concrete walls.

He was lured to LA, like so many, by the promise of a career in the movies. Growing up in Kansas, he was always told he had “the look” for showbiz: the symmetrical face, the broad shoulders, the full lips and long, sandy lashes.

Turns out a lot of guys have that look, and most of them have more acting talent in their little finger than Dean has in his entire six-foot frame. Long story short, his big break failed to materialize.

Instead, he ended up working for Bobby Singer, an old army buddy of his dad’s who owns a vintage and custom shop on Silver Lake Boulevard.

Bobby took Dean under his wing, teaching him the intricacies of caring for gems and clunkers alike. He also had connections in the biz, and the first time he saw Dean behind the wheel of his Baby, he asked if Dean ever considered being a stunt driver.

He hadn’t, but once the idea was planted, he couldn’t get it out of his head. Bobby got him enrolled in the necessary classes so he could be certified, and got him his first job — some low-rent action movie.

A few months after that, Dean walked into Bobby’s shop after hours to look for his lost wallet, and ran straight into a meeting that had nothing to do with either car repair or movie work.

That was how Dean learned not all of Bobby’s income was strictly aboveboard: he had a side gig sourcing and turbocharging forgettable sedans for getaways.

Bobby refused to cut Dean in at first, but Dean could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. With both their parents dead, Dean was largely on his own in covering living expenses for his little brother Sam, who was just starting out at Stanford. Even with a full ride on tuition, Palo Alto was a stupidly expensive place to live.

Sometimes, especially in the beginning, Dean’s moral compass nagged at him, but he always pushed it down. He wasn’t going to point a gun at anybody, or hurt anyone. He was just going to drive.

Bobby soon taught Dean the value of keeping their legal and not-so-legal activities completely separate. They made sure any cars that were going to be used for getaways never entered the premises of Singer’s Custom Kings. Instead, Dean or Bobby worked on them after hours, at a salvage yard owned by Fergus Crowley, a businessman with a substantial amount of clout and an even more substantial amount of shady dealings. They paid a small bit of rent on the space, but Crowley also sent plenty of work their way — anything from bank jobs to convenience store robberies — so it worked out for everyone.

Dean was a quick study at the art of the getaway. Cars had always felt like the most natural place for him to be, and quick thinking in stressful situations was a skill he’d cultivated growing up around a father with anger issues and a drinking problem.

Pretty soon, Dean became Bobby and Crowley’s go-to driver. He doesn’t like to talk about it, in case he jinxes his lucky streak, but in two years of doing this, he’s never been caught yet. 

Humming along to the Def Leppard song blaring from the tape deck, Dean pulls into his usual parking space, in the corner of the garage farthest from the elevator. It’s the safest place for his Baby because few other people ever seem to leave their cars here — either because they’re wary of the long walk through the dimly lit space, or because they’re just lazy.

Dean doesn’t mind the walk, or the idea that someone could be waiting to jump him from behind one of the concrete pillars. Growing up, a lot of guys thought the boy with the pretty face made an easy target. Dean taught them differently. 

Soon, he’s reached the elevator, which sits to the right of a dingy corridor that leads to the laundry room. The elevator doors are perpetually covered in graffiti, and building management has long since stopped trying to remove it. It’s always back the next day.

Dean hits the “up” button and waits.

When the doors open, he finds himself face to face with his next-door neighbor, Castiel Novak. Dean introduced himself when he first moved in, but they haven’t really talked much since, beyond polite greetings in the hallway. Cas seems to be gone a lot.

Right now, he’s clutching an overflowing laundry basket. There are deep, dark circles under his eyes to match his five o’clock shadow, and his hair is even messier than usual. He’s wearing a blue vest over a striped sweatshirt, a bright red stain spreading across one side of his chest.

Dean hitches on a lopsided grin. “Hey, Cas. You kill anyone? Need help hiding the body?”

Cas blinks at him, confused, and Dean jerks his chin at the stain.

“Oh,” Cas murmurs, looking down at himself with vague surprise, like he’d forgotten he was covered in neon-red goop. “No, nothing like that. Just a spill at the Gas-n-Sip.”

“Right.” Dean steps aside to let Cas out of the elevator, pressing his shoulder against the door to keep it from closing. “Well, nice seeing you, Cas.”

Cas nods, and one of the corners of his mouth ticks up in a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You too, Dean.”

Dean watches for another moment as Cas heads for the laundry room, shoulders hunched over the unwieldy basket, worn jeans too big for his lean frame.

When Cas is out of sight, Dean steps through the door and hits the button for the fourth floor. 

*** 

There are few things Castiel can rely on.

One of them is that he will always have the worst possible luck.

The building’s laundry room has five machines, and three of them have been broken for months. Twice a week, faithfully, Castiel calls building management to point this out. A few weeks ago, they stopped answering his calls.

Today, Castiel walks into the room to find one of the two working machines already in use, so he heads to the one at the very back and starts loading his and Jimmy’s things. He adds soap and digs in his pocket for his stash of quarters. When he’s finally located a few, below several pieces of lint and a rock that Jimmy picked up on the way home from school, he drops them in the slot.

Nothing happens.

Castiel keeps pushing buttons, hoping against hope, but the machine remains stubbornly silent. It won’t even return his damn quarters.

White-hot rage presses in on Castiel, and he aims three frustrated kicks at the front of the machine. It doesn’t do much for his anger; it does nothing to solve the problem.

His vision blurring, Castiel turns his back on the machine and slides down it, until he’s sitting on the floor.

He is _not_ going to cry, dammit. What would be the point?

Not for the first time, Castiel wonders how he ended up here.

 _You made stupid, immature decisions,_ the voice in the back of his head supplies.

Growing up, his parents wanted him to be a minister, like his father. He never particularly knew what it was _he_ wanted, but he liked volunteering for the church’s charity programs. He enjoyed feeling like he was making a difference in other people’s lives. The part he had trouble with was how “the saving grace of Jesus” would help those people figure out where their next meal was coming from.

When he was about sixteen, another problem reared its head. He began to suspect he was a little too interested in a handsome boy at school — a suspicion that was confirmed when that boy pulled him aside one day, and they kissed in one of the supply closets. He still thanks his lucky stars they didn’t get caught.

When he met Meg, she seemed like the solution to every single one of his problems. They met through one of the church programs, which paired young offenders with upstanding teen mentors from the congregation. People like Castiel were supposed to offer homework help and hints about their personal savior. People like Meg, with her already impressive rap sheet of petty theft charges, were supposed to see the light. 

Instead, she blew into Castiel’s life with the force of a Category 5 hurricane, leveling everything in her wake.

Her devil-may-care attitude towards life in general, and Castiel’s family in particular, was so different from anything he’d ever known, so _refreshing_ , that Castiel was helpless to resist her.

When they were eighteen, Meg became pregnant. She’d been on the pill, but as it turned out, she didn’t always remember to take it.

Castiel’s parents insisted the two of them get married. Castiel was willing, but marriage wasn’t Meg’s style. She gave him an ultimatum: he could leave town with her, or accept that he’d be a stranger to his own child.

He went with her.

For several months before the baby was born, they stayed with a friend of Meg’s in LA, two hours from Castiel's hometown and a world away. Castiel could see that they were wearing out their welcome, so he found a nonprofit that set them up with some temporary housing of their own. The nonprofit also assigned them a counselor, who got Castiel a job at a nearby Gas-n-Sip.

During Meg’s pregnancy, the two of them were closer than they’d ever been, even hopeful at times. Castiel saved what he could from his wages to buy onesies, dollar-store teething rings and a second-hand wooden crib with a mobile of zoo animals. 

They were poor and much too young to be parents, but at least they were in it together.

After Jimmy was born, things changed. Being a mother didn’t come easily to Meg, and she was often irritable. Soon, she started leaving more and more often. She refused to tell Castiel where she was going, but soon, envelopes of cash started to materialize around the apartment. When Castiel confronted Meg about them, she brushed him off.

Castiel continued to work at the Gas-n-Sip. Every once in a while, he questioned Meg about her source of income, her occasional injuries, or the gun he found in her nightstand. But she never relented, and he reminded himself that, on his Gas-n-Sip wages alone, they would have to choose between diapers for Jimmy and three square meals.

The truce they fell into was uneasy, but before he realized it, several years had passed.

The night before Jimmy’s third birthday, Castiel received a phone call. Meg had been arrested for robbing a gas station three blocks from their apartment. She was sentenced to five years in state prison, with a possibility of parole for good behavior after three.

The first time Castiel went to see her at the Central California Women’s Facility, she promised she had ways to “take care” of him and Jimmy. Castiel could guess what that meant. Envelopes of cash would continue to appear — as long as he asked no questions. 

He told her "no."

Instead, he got a second job, as a server at a small greasy-spoon diner near the apartment building where he’d settled with Jimmy.

In the dead of night like this, when he’s alone with his thoughts, Castiel wonders whether he’s made the right decision, trying to get by without help from Meg’s dubious associates.

Between his shifts at the Gas-n-Sip and at the diner, he barely gets to see his son most days. Jimmy probably spends more time with Missouri, the elderly neighbor who watches him after school, than he does with his own father.

Still, what’s the use of crying about it? Annoyed with himself, Castiel wipes at his eyes and pushes off the floor. There are more important things to do than sit here, feeling sorry for himself.

Castiel pulls his phone out of his pocket and blinks at the cracked screen until the clock swims into focus. It’s past midnight. He’ll have to try scrubbing some of his and Jimmy’s things in the sink upstairs before he can sleep, and hope they’ll have time to dry before morning.

As he pockets his phone, Castiel’s eyes fall on the date at the top right of the screen. April 26.

Meg’s release date is one week away.

*** 

The next night, Dean pulls up at exactly thirty minutes after nine p.m.

He’s never late.

The address the client provided is for a warehouse in the Wholesale District, wedged between downtown and the Los Angeles River.

As soon as the car comes to a stop, engine still running, Dean grabs his phone and sets a timer for five minutes. He picks up the handheld police scanner from the passenger seat and adjusts the antenna until a staticky female voice emerges from the speaker, competing with the basketball game on the radio.

_9 Adam 81, what is your current location?_

_This is some comeback for the Clippers! Only a few minutes ago, they looked dead and buried!_

Dean checks the timer. Thirty seconds have already passed.

He tugs at the leather driving gloves he only wears for this kind of work, adjusting and readjusting them. It’s a nervous habit he usually suppresses when he’s got passengers. But the passengers have yet to show.

Another minute passes. What the fuck is going on? 

Dean breathes, reminding himself that everything's OK. If no one’s here within five minutes, he can just bail.

His eyes scan the car’s interior. It’s an Impala, 2011 model, cheap and mind-numbingly boring inside and out. Bobby probably thought it was funny, sticking Dean with his Baby’s bastard relative. At least he did some solid work on the engine. If it comes to a chase, this abomination should hold its own.

Two minutes and thirty seconds in, Dean’s torn out of his thoughts by the blaring of an alarm from the nearby warehouse. A guy in a black ski mask runs full tilt out of a side door, which swings open, releasing a triangle of dim, orange light onto the pavement. The guy’s left hand is clutching his gun, the right a bulging sack, like he’s some kind of thug Santa.

Dean reaches back to the handle of the passenger-side rear door. He pushes the door open, and the warning chime sets up its monotonous _ding-ding-ding_ , too loud in the empty parking lot. Dean curses Bobby inwardly. He’s supposed to disable these.

The masked guy slides into the back seat, smelling of sweat and fear. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge Dean, which suits Dean just fine.

The guy’s leg is jiggling frantically. His eyes are fixed on the warehouse door. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Come on, man. What’re you doing?” he mumbles, voice cracking with barely contained panic.

Dean knows he’s supposed to be driving two men, but he can’t worry about that. If the timer gets to five minutes, he leaves. No matter what.

Next to him, the police scanner crackles to life with the dispatcher’s flat, businesslike voice.

_Attention all units. 211. Armed robbery reported in progress at 12479 Traction Avenue._

Dean’s eyes fly to his timer again. One minute to go.

A second man darts out of the warehouse door, facing the interior, gun pointed. He pulls the trigger, and a shot rings out.

Well, fuck.

The guy turns, running for the car. Before the rear door is all the way shut, Dean’s already shifted into gear and stepped on the gas pedal.

The scanner crackles.

_Shots fired at 12479 Traction Avenue. Suspects fleeing the scene in a grey sedan, likely Chevrolet Impala._

Dean turns down the basketball game and focuses on the scanner as he makes his way through the ebb and flow of the industrial back alleys in this part of town. He takes a sharp left onto Fourth Street and follows it to the bridge across the river. After another minute, he heads right on South Chicago Street, thinking he’ll ditch his passengers, and the car, at Hollenbeck Park.

That’s when a new voice, male and young-ish, rings out from the scanner.

_This is 1 Baker 11. Headed south on Boyle Avenue._

Shit. Boyle is the next cross street. Dean can feel two pairs of eyes on him from the back seat, hear the loud, tense breathing. He switches off the car’s headlights and pulls up to the right-hand curb, close behind an eighteen-wheeler parked for the night.

Struck by a sudden idea, he turns up the volume on the basketball game again.

_And for the first time in the game, the Clippers have the lead. Score now 71 to 69. Seven minutes to go in the final quarter here at the Staples Center._

Half a block away, a squad car creeps along Boyle, searchlights pointing down Fourth. Dean leans back, retreating into the shadow cast by the truck. The searchlights pass them by, and the scanner crackles back to life.

_This is 1 Baker 11. No sign of suspects. Repeat, no sign of suspects._

When the squad car is out of sight, Dean creeps out of his parking space, turning the radio’s volume down once more. He keeps the headlights off, navigating by the sickly, intermittent glow of streetlights instead.

He pulls onto Boyle, following the squad car southbound, at a distance of about two blocks. It’s a risky strategy, but it makes sense: if someone’s already covering this area, no other units are likely to show up.

Boyle doesn’t have a lot of traffic at this time of night, but it’s a reasonably big thoroughfare, so he should be OK.

After heading south for another two blocks, the squad car turns left down a narrow side street. He can’t follow it there without being spotted.

Dean keeps going south along Boyle, trying to think on the fly. From the backseat, he can hear quiet muttering, but he tunes it out and turns up the volume on the Clippers game again.

_Three minutes thirteen left on the clock. Ref calls a time-out and it’s the Clippers by one…_

His mind made up, Dean makes a U-turn and speeds back the way he came, north on Boyle. He screeches to a halt at the Stop sign that marks the intersection with Sixth Street. Just as he’s about to turn left onto Sixth, the squad car emerges from a side street half a block ahead and pulls up at the Stop sign across the intersection.

_This is 1 Baker 11. I have eyes on the suspects._

Fuck. Rookie mistake. He was so in love with his own plan, he forgot about one of the most important rules: never double back.

Well, there’s nothing for it now. The plan is still solid; he just has to floor it.

With a screech of rubber on concrete, Dean turns onto Sixth. The sound of sirens has the two thugs in the backseat glancing over their shoulders and cursing a blue streak, but Dean can’t worry about that now. He just has to get where he’s going.

He races west, toward the bridge, speedometer climbing past forty, then fifty, then sixty. The bridge is busy, even at this time of night, which works out very much in Dean’s favor. He weaves in and out of lanes at a speed that would be suicidal for lesser drivers, but he can do this. This is where he’s at home.

Dean reaches for the radio’s volume knob, and the announcer’s voice rings out.

_Thirty seconds remaining, and all the Clippers have to do is run out the clock._

He’s lost sight of the squad car now, but the voice on the police scanner is squawking in his ear, agitated, requesting backup and airship units — police speak for helicopters. Fuck.

Dean slows down as he turns left onto Broadway. If there’s helicopters in the mix, he can’t draw attention by going above the speed limit. 

The game commentary and police scanner are merging in Dean’s ear now, his attention on both and neither.

_Suspect headed west on Broadway…_

_And that’s it! What an amazing comeback for the Clippers. Outplayed for most of the game, they showed remarkable resilience…_

Eleventh Street is coming up and Dean changes lanes, just in time to turn right. In front of him, Staples Center rises like a beacon, indigo searchlights illuminating the night sky.

Dean heads for the entrance to the parking garage. There’s no line, now that the game is almost over. He pulls up to the ticket machine, punching the button until a scrap of paper emerges from the slot.

He pulls into the nearest open spot, right as the first groups of people in blue Clippers jerseys start streaming from the elevator banks, rowdy and cheerful.

Dean doesn’t so much as spare a glance at the two masked men in the backseat before he lunges for the passenger footwell and pulls out his duffel. He unzips it and grabs his well-worn Clippers hat.

In one quick motion, he’s out of the car and blending into the crowd, brim pulled down low to conceal his face.

As he exits the garage, two uniformed cops cross his path. Their eyes slide over him, and they keep walking.

*** 

If you have to be working somewhere after dark, Ellen’s 24-Hour Diner isn’t the worst place to do it.

There are usually a few customers, just enough to keep busy, but not enough to be stressful. Tonight is especially quiet, no more than three night owls hogging seats at the long bar, with its chrome edges and cheaply upholstered stools.

Nobody’s really talking; instead, the patrons stare blankly at their phone screens, or the news report on TV about some kind of armed robbery in the Wholesale District.

Castiel himself is focused on his dog-eared copy of Agatha Christie’s _Murder on the Orient Express_. He likes her books: easy solutions to complex problems. The truly bad guys always get punished, and the ones who were justified in their actions get a break. In this fictional world, not every criminal deserves to go to prison. 

Real life, Castiel knows from experience, doesn’t particularly care what people deserve.

From the edge of his consciousness, a fatigue-raw, gruff voice filters in. “Refill over here.”

Castiel restores his bookmark and puts down the novel, but he does so slowly. Moving sluggishly in response to a request that’s not phrased politely is one of the little rebellions he occasionally allows himself.

He picks up the half-full carafe of coffee from the warmer. It’s almost time to make more.

As he refills the customer's mug, someone to his right says, “Hey, change the channel, would ya? Clippers game is on. Final quarter.”

Castiel picks up the remote from behind the counter, flipping through until a broadcast of the game fills the screen. He slides his gaze across the diner to see if anyone’s trying to catch his eye, but the small group of guests seems reasonably happy.

As he picks up his book again, his thoughts start to wander.

_Not every criminal deserves to go to prison._

Castiel asks himself, sometimes, if Meg deserved it. She was certainly guilty, but in her own strange way, she was trying to provide for her family the way she knew she could.

From the outset, Castiel had known about Meg’s history of petty theft and other, minor crimes. But Castiel had hoped that getting them a stable place to live, and becoming parents, would set her on a different path. He’d thought maybe they could make a new start together. Instead, he fell asleep in an empty bed more often than not.

Perhaps, if he'd asked more questions, prodded harder than he did, he could have gotten through to her. But after Jimmy’s birth, he put all his focus into being the best father he could be. Even if the result was an enduring estrangement with Meg, he can’t bring himself to regret that choice.

The truly disheartening thing, he thinks, is this: even with how hard he’s been working at being a good father, it’s not enough. Jimmy needs someone else in his life — another person who can help guide him and be there for him when Castiel can’t.

Jimmy’s mother _should_ be that person.

But experience has taught Castiel not to get his hopes up. 

*** 

“You didn’t disable the damn door alarm.” Dean glares up at Bobby’s face, which is settled in its default expression of grumpy displeasure. But Dean left his sunglasses in the car, so in the midday sun, the glare turns into a squint pretty fast. 

“Did too,” Bobby rumbles. “You probably turned it back on when you were screwin’ around with the electronics, because Mr. Particular here can’t drive a car without a workin’ radio.”

Dean scoffs. “Screw you. If I hadn’t been listening to that Clippers game, you’d be bailing me out of jail right now, instead of making bank.”

“Mind your mouth, boy. I’m startin’ to regret my choices.”

“What choices?”

In answer, Bobby slumps into the chair next to Dean’s and produces a small clamshell container from his ratty backpack. Bobby opens it to reveal a reasonably fresh-looking, chocolate-flavored cake donut. “Got ya this off the craft table before the vultures descended. Might eat it myself now.”

“Don’t you dare.” Dean snatches the container out of Bobby’s hand and takes a messy bite.

He’s sitting in front of a mirror at the slapdash makeup station for today’s outdoor shoot, and he’s been waiting a solid hour for the makeup artist to show. She’ll be unhappy with him for eating, but that’s what she gets for making him wait past lunchtime.

Anyway, it’s not like his face will be on camera. All she’ll do is put on the head-covering latex mask. It has a douchy goatee and it’ll make him look like he’s bald, like the lead of the movie.

“They want you to roll the car,” Bobby rumbles, watching Dean inhale the donut with barely-concealed disapproval. “I told ‘em I’d ask, but I damn well wasn’t happy about it.”

Dean flicks a chocolate-brown crumb off the pants of his costume. It’s a police uniform, of all things. The life of Dean Winchester, ladies and gentlemen.

“How much extra?”

“Five hundred bucks.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll do it.”

Bobby Singer doesn’t do slack-jawed, but his eyes do widen under the brim of his cap. “Are you outta your mind, boy?”

“Look, I do alright, but I ain’t gonna turn down five hundred extra in the account. I’ve rolled plenty of cars. They’ll put me in the head-containment seat and the harness belt. I’ll be fine.”

Bobby crosses his arms, staring Dean down. “The seat and belt make it saf _er_. Don’t make it _safe_. Your life and limb’s worth more than five hundred measly dollars.”

“Not in my experience,” Dean says, flatly.

Bobby looks like he really wants to argue that point some more, but that’s when the makeup chick finally shows up. Half an hour later, Dean looks like a poor man’s Jason Statham, strapped into a fake squad car and staring at a release form that means he can’t sue the production company if he breaks his neck.

He barely listens to the guy who handed it to him, rattling off the gist of the various clauses in a bored monotone. Dean signs, hands back the pen and turns away, waiting for his signal.

When it comes, he accelerates. The car’s got a V6 under the hood. Nothing to write home about, but he manages zero to sixty in five seconds, by his count.

When the world turns upside down, Dean remembers he was going to pick up some milk on his way home.

*** 

The Big 6 Market is the closest grocery store to Dean’s apartment, and it’s cheap. That’s about all it has going for it.

The aisles are barely wide enough for a shopping cart to fit through, and they’re always out of the exact stuff he was going to pick up. But milk is pretty basic, and even if they don’t have Dean’s usual brand, they should at least have something resembling it.

Cautiously hopeful, he heads for the fridges at the back of the store when he hears a low, rumbling voice from the next aisle over.

“You’re a frog.”

A child’s giggle. “Am not. _You’re_ a frog.”

A whiskey-smooth chuckle, followed by what’s unmistakably a croak. “Well, look at that. I guess you’re right.”

Another giggle. “You’re so embarrassing, Dad.”

Dean rounds the corner of the aisle to find Cas pushing a shopping cart that contains some groceries and a blue-eyed, tousle-haired boy of about six. Cas is smiling down at the boy, his own blue eyes dancing. “Oh, really? Well, you love me, so I must not be that bad.”

“Hey, Cas.”

At the sound of his name, Cas looks up. His expression is still warm and open. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean stills, holding eye contact. He should be saying something, but all his conversation skills seem to have flown out the window at the sight of the softness on Cas’ face. Dean’s never seen him look this relaxed.

Except Cas is starting to frown now, and Dean realizes he’s just standing here, in the middle of a supermarket, staring at his neighbor. He really, really needs to say something. Now.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Something _better_.

Unsurprisingly, Cas looks confused. Dean didn’t know this about Cas, but apparently, when he’s confused, he tilts his head a little and squints. It’s extremely attractive, and doesn’t help Dean’s problem with forming words.

“I just meant… I don’t know. I’ve never seen you around the grocery store before, I guess.”

“I come here all the time,” Cas says, slowly, like he’s speaking to a person who might be dangerous when upset. Dean can’t exactly blame him. “Though not usually at _this_ time. My shift at Ellen’s Diner this afternoon was canceled because of a kitchen fire.”

“Huh.” Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He needs to extricate himself from this travesty of a conversation, but he can’t seem to figure out how. “I thought you worked at the Gas-n-Sip.”

Cas nods. “I do. And the diner. Both.”

“Dad, can we keep going now?”

Dean flinches. He’d kind of forgotten the kid was there.

Cas shoots Dean an apologetic half-smile. “We probably should. Jimmy has homework to finish.”

“Oh. OK. Yeah, sure.” Dean nods and returns Cas’ smile. It takes a few seconds and an unsure glance from Cas to realize that he’s blocking the end of the aisle. “Sorry.”

His face warm, Dean moves out of the way and resumes his walk to the fridges at the back.

He picks up a few more things at random before he leaves, thinking he might try an actual home-cooked meal for once. He doesn’t cook much, but it can be a helpful distraction at times. The close call the other night has been on his mind.

When he walks back into the parking lot, he finds Cas and Jimmy standing next to an appalling, rusty boat of a car. A Lincoln Continental: model year 1978, he’s pretty sure, and painted Jubilee Gold, of all things. 

Cas has the hood open, and he's staring down at the engine with evident frustration. Jimmy is leaning against the side of the car, idly kicking at a small rock.

Dean sets down his shopping in the trunk of his Baby and strolls over. “What seems to be the problem?”

“The thing won’t start,” Cas growls, glaring at the car like it’s threatened to murder his firstborn.

“Today’s your lucky day. I’m a mechanic. Hop in and try starting it.”

Cas transfers his death glare from the engine to Dean. “That’s the problem, Dean. It _won’t_ start.”

Dean can’t help it: he chuckles. Cas looks even more affronted than before. “Sorry, man. I’m not making fun of you.” Dean holds up both hands, palms out. “I swear. It’s just, if I can hear what kind of sound it makes when it doesn’t start, it’ll help me figure out what’s wrong.”

“Dad doesn’t know a lot about cars.” Jimmy walks over to stand next to Cas in front of the open hood, giving Dean an apologetic, squinty shrug that makes him look strikingly like Cas, minus the five o’clock shadow.

Cas scoffs. “Oh, and you do?”

“Yeah, Dad. It’s the ignition switch.” Jimmy rolls his eyes, like any six-year-old with half a brain, let alone a grown-up, should know that.

Dean grins at the kid, reluctantly impressed with his easy confidence. “That’s definitely a possibility. How do you know?”

“The lady who watches me after school — her son said any self-respecting man should be able to fix a car, so he’s been showing me a few things.”

Dean glances carefully over at Cas, whose face is vivid with embarrassment. “I…” Cas swallows. “I don’t… I work a lot, so I don’t have much time to...” 

He breaks off. When he meets Dean’s eyes, he still looks mortified. Dean smiles, hoping it’s reassuring. The set of Cas’ shoulders relaxes a little, so maybe it worked.

“Why don’t you try to get her started now?” Dean asks.

Cas nods, just a quick jerk of his chin, and slides into the driver’s seat. Dean beckons Jimmy closer. “Take a look at the key. If your dad has a hard time turning it, you’re probably right.”

Cas slants his eyes at them as he slides the key into the ignition, and one corner of his mouth ticks up. He takes a big, dramatic breath and shakes out his hand at the wrist, ratcheting up the drama. Dean snorts.

Sure enough, when Cas tries to turn the key, it takes a couple of tries to make it move. The dashboard lights flicker on, then immediately off again.

Dean straightens up, grinning, and holds up his hand for a high five. Looking smug, Jimmy obliges. “Called it, buddy. It’s the ignition switch.” Bending down to lean through the open driver-side window, he adds, “The switch is probably worn out. That’s why you’re having a hard time turning the key. And a broken ignition can’t fire up the spark plugs. That’s why the car won’t start.”

Something troubled passes across Cas’ face. “What will it cost to replace?”

Dean shrugs, considering. “They usually run into the hundreds of dollars, but if you wanna take it to Singer’s Custom Kings, where I work, Bobby might be able to pull from a car he’s got sitting around his yard. Be a lot cheaper in that case.”

“That would be wonderful,” Cas says, looking relieved. “Is it far? Can we… can we push the car there?”

“Nah, man. It’s miles away. Silver Lake Boulevard. You’ll need a tow.”

Cas swallows hard. “I can’t afford that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll sweet-talk Bobby into towing it for free. Special favor for my neighbor,” Dean says, hoping his pull with Bobby is in fact strong enough for a free tow. If not, what the hell. He just made five hundred extra, rolling that damn car. He can afford to have Bobby take the cost of a tow out of his wages.

They transfer Cas’ shopping to Baby’s trunk, then wait together for Bobby to arrive. It takes more than half an hour, and Cas keeps fussing about wasting Dean’s time, which Dean does his best to discourage. It’s not like he had any big plans for the night.

Jimmy tells them both a story about something that happened at school. It’s surprisingly complicated, and he seems to be making up at least half of it as he goes. Dean’s pretty sure LA public schools don’t keep live dragons as classroom pets.

When Bobby finally rattles into the parking lot with his tow truck, Dean’s nerves ratchet up. He doesn’t know Cas that well, but he has a feeling that if Cas knew Dean was trying to cover his towing bill, he wouldn’t be happy.

As soon as Bobby’s truck comes to a stop, Dean jumps up on the footboard and leans through the window to talk to him.

“Hey, Bobby. Do me a solid. Don’t charge this guy for the tow, alright? You can take it out of my wages if you want.”

Bobby stares at Dean a good long while, then transfers his gaze to Cas, who’s trying to nod a greeting at Bobby from over by the Continental, even as the kid is doing his best to climb onto his back.

“Good-lookin’ guy,” Bobby rumbles. “You sweet on him?”

Dean hopes he looks more unimpressed than he feels. “Bobby, would you stop being an ass about this? He’s my neighbor, and he doesn’t have a lot of extra cash lying around.”

Bobby studies Cas again, then turns to Dean. “You’ll stay late two days this week. Put in some extra time on the car I set aside for Crowley’s next job, too.”

Dean nods, relieved. “You got it.”

Within ten minutes, Bobby’s got the Continental on the bed of his truck, Jimmy watching him avidly the entire time. Bobby even lets him help work the winch.

When Bobby pulls out of the parking lot, Dean, Cas and Jimmy all pile onto Baby’s front bench. Jimmy’s a skinny kid, so it works OK.

When Dean starts up Baby, she emits her usual throaty purr, and Jimmy makes a noise of appreciation. “See?” he says, turning to Cas. “That’s how a car _should_ sound, Dad.” 

Cas rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching.

Dean only has a couple of bags, so when they get home, he offers to help carry some of Cas’ shopping. It’s not exactly a hardship, because Cas’ apartment is right next to Dean’s own, at the end of the fourth-floor corridor.

Still, Dean’s never been to Cas’ place before, so when he steps inside, he looks around a little. It’s the same size and general layout as Dean’s, but where his own walls are covered in old band posters and pictures of him and Sam as kids, Cas’ place has very few decorative touches. Unless you count a few random toys on the floor.

A stack of bedding sits, neatly folded, on the couch next to the door, and Dean gets the feeling that this is where Cas sleeps. He knows the apartments on this floor only have one bedroom.

“Where should I put these?” Dean asks, hoisting the bags in his right hand.

“Just right through here,” Cas calls from the half-open kitchen alcove at the back of the room.

Dean passes Jimmy, who’s pulling a stack of paper out of a small, scuffed backpack and piling it onto the small table at the center of the living area. When Dean gets to the kitchen, he sets his bags down on the yellowed Formica counter.

Cas glances at him uncertainly. “Can I… get you anything? A glass of water maybe?”

Dean nods, feeling a little awkward himself. “Sure. Sounds good.”

Cas reaches up into a cupboard at Dean’s back, their arms brushing against each other as he moves. Up close, Dean catches a slight whiff of sweat, but not enough to be unpleasant. Mostly, there’s soap, along with something else. It’s indefinable, but, for lack of a better word, it’s… comfortable.

Cas fills the glass straight from the tap and hands it to Dean, who does his best not to wince at the warm temperature or the metallic taste.

As Dean drinks, his eyes fall on a small mirror on the nearest wall. There’s a photo clipped to the frame that shows Cas with a woman about his age, round face framed by dark, wavy hair. They’re both smiling, but there’s a wicked glint in her eyes.

Dean jerks his chin at the picture. “Is that…?”

Cas’ eyes follow the motion. “Jimmy’s mother, yes.”

“If this is too nosy, stop me, but…” Dean clears his throat.

“She’s in prison,” Cas says, matter-of-fact.

“Oh.”

“She’ll be out in five days.”

A heavy weight of disappointment settles into Dean’s chest, and he’s not even sure why. It’s not like he has any claim on Cas, just because they exchange two words in the hallway sometimes, or because Dean gave him a ride home exactly once.

Swallowing, he says, “Right. Are you guys still…?”

Cas shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “No. Not since she was arrested. Or maybe before then. It was somewhat… gradual.” He scratches at the back of his head. “She _will_ be staying here though, at least for a while. Until she’s back on her feet.”

“What’d she do?” Dean regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine.” Cas sighs, shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. “She robbed a gas station.”

Dean swallows and tries not to wonder if Cas’ ex pulled that job for Crowley.

When he looks up, it’s to find Cas’ eyes searching his face, a sudden distance behind the deep blue. “I understand if you’d rather not socialize with me anymore. Now that you know.”

Dean reaches out, giving Cas’ shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Dude, I’m not worried about it. _You_ haven’t shot anyone, right?”

One corner of Cas’ mouth ticks up. “If I told you, I’d have to shoot _you_ next.”

Dean snorts so hard, he almost drops his half-empty glass. “Was that a joke?”

Cas shrugs, but that second corner is joining the first one now, forming a full-blown smile. It’s shy, but it’s there.

Dean leans back against the counter, meeting Cas’ gaze. It should be awkward, just standing there in silence, with nothing for background noise but Jimmy’s pencil scratching against paper. Somehow, it isn’t.

“Hey, um. While your car’s at the shop, you might need a ride someplace.”

Cas frowns. “Dean, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nah, you’re not imposing,” Dean says, dismissing Cas with a wave of his hand and hoping to God he’s not being too obvious about the fact that he really just wants an excuse to spend a little more time with the guy. “Just thought we should swap numbers. You know, in case.”

“In case,” Cas repeats, and Dean nods.

Smiling softly, Cas reaches for his back pocket and pulls out his phone.


	2. He Had a Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is "Under Your Spell" by Desire. It's beautiful, and I highly recommend giving it a listen. [This version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WflAReA2cqs) includes some lovely shots from the movie that inspired this fic. (And no spoilers.)

Who the fuck gets Chinese food delivered to a pizza joint?

Crowley, that’s who. The short, stocky guy with the beard barbered to within an inch of its life, the receding hairline, and the ostentatious suits that fit like a second skin.

To be fair, he _owns_ the pizza joint — just one of his many local business ventures, some legal, many more not so much. Ownership does confer certain privileges.

One of which, apparently, is that he gets to dip a monogrammed pair of chopsticks into a container of General Tso’s chicken while Dean and Bobby are stuck sitting elbow to elbow on their side of the booth, looking down at slices of pizza whose crust resembles the texture and taste of cardboard.

No wonder Crowley doesn’t eat the food at his own restaurant.

It’s probably some kind of power play too — the underlings get stuck with the crappy food. That’s just the kind of dick move someone like Crowley would pull.

Especially when they still don’t really know why they’re here in the first place.

Most of their jobs are orchestrated by Crowley in some way, but Dean almost always deals with a rotating cast of lower-level employees, and Bobby only gets involved in sourcing and prepping the cars.

“I’ve asked you here,” Crowley says, after he’s swallowed his last bite of General Tso’s and wiped his mouth fussily on the only cloth napkin in the place, “to congratulate you on a job well done.”

Dean pauses halfway through chewing a bite of pizza. It’s disgusting, but it’s there, so he might as well eat it.

Judging by the way Bobby’s eyebrows are rising to meet his ball cap, he’s equally confused. “I shut down the garage two hours early, just for an attaboy?”

Crowley spreads his hands wide in a gesture of obviously fake confusion. “I thought you’d be happy. Everybody likes a good review.”

Judging by the Yelp page for Inferno Pizza, Crowley wouldn’t know a good review if it bit him on the ass.

“I guess we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Dean says, not bothering to swallow first. Let Crowley think he was raised in a barn. He’s learned that he’s better off when people like Crowley underestimate him.

Crowley tuts. “Oh ye of little faith. If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, I would’ve lost a good bit on that warehouse job. Not to mention, my best getaway driver and two valuable operatives.”

Dean just barely suppresses a snort. He can think of a lot of words to describe two idiots who almost didn’t show up to meet their getaway car on time, then brought down the LAPD on everyone because they got trigger-happy. “Valuable” isn’t one of them.

“What d’you want, Crowley?” Bobby growls. Crowley may be their boss in some ways, but Bobby’s patience doesn’t stretch far at the best of times. 

Crowley leans forward, wagging a pedantic finger at Bobby. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Bobby. Coming straight to the point. So I’ll do the same.” He sits back again, taking them both in. “I’m offering you a raise. Thirty percent of the take on any job we work together.”

Dean affects indifference, but his thoughts are racing. Crowley’s offering double what they get right now. On _every_ job. It’s an amazing deal — which makes it suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

Crowley chuckles. He probably imagines it sounds fond, but “creepy as fuck” is closer to the truth. “Another straight shooter. Just how I like them.”

Crowley cranes his neck toward the counter, where a bored-looking, pimply teen is filing her nails next to the cash register. When Crowley snaps his fingers, she perks up and wanders over to their table, removing the detritus from Crowley’s meal without a word. She doesn’t even glance at Bobby’s or Dean’s plates. As soon as she walks away, Crowley continues like they were never interrupted. 

“You work only for me. No one else. Totally exclusive relationship.”

About a dozen lewd jokes try to make it past Dean’s lips, but he clenches his teeth to keep them in.

Crowley is obviously going to screw them over somehow. Something’s not right. There’s no way in hell they can accept—

“Forty percent,” Bobby says. “And the arrangement’s limited to six months as far as Dean’s concerned. After that, he’s outta the game.”

Dean gapes at Bobby, open-mouthed. He almost doesn’t hear Crowley when he counters with “Thirty-five. One year for the arrangement, and Dean is barred from working getaways for anyone else for another five.”

“Depends on what Dean thinks, but it sounds reasonable to me.” Bobby reaches across the table, and his hand meets Crowley’s for a quick, perfunctory shake.

Crowley holds out his hand to Dean. Something cold slides down Dean’s spine.

He could really use the extra money this is going to net him. He’d have enough to set Sam up for years, up in Palo Alto.

And to have an easy out like that? It’s not like he really wants to do this work; it’s risky as fuck. It just so happens that he’s a good driver, and he needs the money.

Still — something about this doesn’t feel right.

Rubbing at the pizza grease coating his fingertips to buy time, he says, “My hands are a little dirty.”

Crowley’s grin is all teeth. “So are mine.”

Dean hesitates for another split-second.

Then he shakes on it.

*** 

It’s half an hour past midnight when Castiel finishes closing up at the Gas-n-Sip. A customer, drunk and belligerent with it, showed up an hour ago and refused to leave. Castiel called the police to deal with it, but they needed a statement.

As he was talking to the officer, Castiel watched through the store’s glass front as the last bus home drove off into the night.

It didn’t seem like he should ask the LAPD for a ride, especially with the back seat occupied by a yelling drunk, so he’s been sitting behind the cash register, aware of the minutes ticking away, trying to think. Jimmy is staying at Missouri’s for the night, as he usually does when Castiel has a late shift, so that’s one less thing to worry about.

He could call a cab, but it’s a twenty minute ride, which is more than he can really afford. Reluctantly, Castiel is considering crashing on his old sleeping bag in the storeroom when another option occurs to him.

Dean.

He did give Castiel his number for a contingency such as this. Before Castiel can change his mind, he pulls out his phone and thumbs through the contacts.

After the fourth ring, Dean’s voice sounds in his ear.

_This is Dean’s cell. Leave a message after the beep. If this is Sam, go get a haircut, bitch._

When the beep sounds, Castiel fumbles for a moment, unsure how to justify a call to a virtual stranger in the middle of the night. “Ah… hello, Dean. I’m at the Gas-n-Sip, and I seem to have missed the last bus home. I wouldn’t have called, except I was closing up by myself and there’s no one here who can give me a ride. I hope I didn’t wake you...” Good God, what is he _doing_? It’s past midnight. He should’ve just curled up in the storeroom or swallowed the cost of a cab. “You know what, please don’t worry about this. I can call a cab. Have a good night.”

Castiel hangs up, but before he’s even started to consider his options again, the phone rings in his hand. It’s Dean. Hurriedly, Castiel slides his thumb across the screen to accept the call. “Dean?”

“Hey! You didn’t call a cab yet, did you? Hell, even if you did, call back and cancel, ‘cause I’m coming to get you.”

Castiel exhales heavily, consternation and relief fighting for the upper hand. “Dean, you don’t have to—“

“Don’t even start. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

In fact, it’s no more than fifteen minutes later when the dark rumble of Dean’s car sounds in the empty parking lot outside. Castiel heads out the door immediately, turning off the lights and locking up behind him at record speed. He doesn’t want to take up any more of Dean’s time than he’s already going to.

The Impala’s passenger door creaks as Castiel opens it, and Dean’s warm, easy smile is the first thing he sees when he slides onto the bench seat.

“Hey, Cas.”

The inside of Dean’s car is only marginally warmer than the cool night air, but despite that, Castiel feels a flush creep onto his face. “Hello, Dean. Thank you for picking me up.”

“It’s no big deal." Dean's fingers flex and curl around the steering wheel. Probably a nervous habit. "Anytime, man.” 

“Hopefully I won’t have to impose on you again,” Castiel says, still feeling a little awkward about calling Dean in the first place. “Bobby said he would have my car fixed by tomorrow.”

“Right.” Dean flashes another smile, a little smaller than the first, and turns away to start the car. 

Before he can, though, Castiel’s stomach gives a mortifying rumble. It seems this night is determined to rob him of every last shred of his dignity. “I apologize,” he says, barely wanting to meet Dean’s eyes. 

Dean is biting his lip, obviously trying to hold in a laugh. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“Ah…” Castiel scratches thoughtfully at his stubbled cheek. “Before my shift, I think.”

“Dude, aren’t they eight-hour shifts?”

“They are.”

“No wonder you’re starving.” Castiel almost jumps off his seat when Dean’s hand lands on his thigh with a resounding clap. “C’mon. I know a place.”

Castiel looks down at Dean’s hand, which doesn’t seem to be moving. As soon as Dean notices, he pulls back.

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, trying to gloss over that moment of… whatever it was. “But it’s my treat. For giving me a ride.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Castiel cuts him off. “I insist.”

Less than ten minutes later, they stop at the drive-through of an In-N-Out Burger.

When they pull up to the speaker, Dean tries to insist that he’s not actually hungry, but Castiel sees the way he licks his lips when his eyes fall on the illuminated menu board, with its oversized pictures of towering burgers and crispy fries. 

Castiel squares his shoulders and glares, a strategy that has never failed him yet in an argument with Jimmy. “Dean, you don’t need to hold back on my account. I don’t make much, but I can buy you a burger for coming out in the middle of the night to give me a ride.”

When Dean starts to squirm in his seat, Castiel knows he’s won. “Yeah, OK. I’ll have a cheeseburger.”

“Double cheeseburger,” Castiel says, in a voice that leaves no room for argument. “And we’re going to share some fries.”

Dean snorts. “Yes, sir.”

When they get their order, Dean suggests they eat it right there in the parking lot, and Castiel agrees, reluctant to return to the close, musty air of his apartment just yet. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he takes a large, messy bite, an expression of bliss undoubtedly on his face. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he got the first taste.

“That good, huh?” Dean asks, grinning around his own bite.

Castiel hums his agreement. “It’s wonderful. Better than sex.”

Dean pauses.

Castiel stops chewing when his own words catch up to him. “I’m sorry. That was probably an inappropriate thing to say. I don’t have much of a filter at the best of times.” He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “And I’m tired, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Dean swallows his bite and hurriedly arranges his face into a reassuring grin. “Nah, man, you’re fine.” The grin broadens until it has a slightly lewd edge. “Besides, you’re right. Their burgers _are_ better than sex. And I say that as someone who’s pretty damn fond of sex.”

Castiel arches a single eyebrow at him, and Dean chuckles. “Sorry,” he mumbles around another bite of burger, not sounding sorry at all. “Guess it was _my_ turn to say something inappropriate, huh?”

Castiel shakes his head, feeling inexplicably fond of this near-stranger. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m just… surprised. I never see you with any women.” After a second’s panic, he adds, “Not that I would be watching for that. Or for you.” He clamps his mouth shut before he can dig himself into an even deeper hole.

Luckily, Castiel’s floundering seems to amuse Dean, because he huffs a small chuckle. Then, he takes another bite while he considers his answer. “Haven’t hooked up much for a couple of months, I guess. I’m too busy with the garage and my other work.”

“Other work?”

Castiel senses the slightest hesitation before Dean answers, but it’s there and gone in a heartbeat. “Yeah. I do stunts for movies sometimes. You know, driving stunts.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“They take all kinds of precautions,” Dean answers, shrugging. “Never got so much as a crick in the neck yet.”

“Well, that’s good,” Castiel says, because it seems like the thing to say, but he’s not feeling exactly reassured.

They sit in silence for a moment, enjoying their burgers. A small container of fries sits between them on the bench seat, cushioned by a blanket Dean pulled from the back — to prevent any grease from bleeding onto the seat, he had explained. When Castiel absently reaches over to grab another fry, his fingers brush against Dean’s hand, just retreating from the bag.

Dean pulls back as if burned. “So, um, what about you? You seeing anyone?”

Castiel shakes his head, taking a small bite of his fry. “No. Not since Meg. You can probably imagine it’s hard to meet anyone, between working two jobs and parenting Jimmy.”

“Right. Yeah.”

Silence falls again, and Castiel thinks about meeting Dean’s eyes at the store. Holding his gaze for much longer than was technically polite. He thinks about smiles and the offer of a phone number and Dean’s hand on his thigh.

He says, so quietly he’s barely sure he spoke at all, “I’m also more interested in men, I think.”

Dean’s eyes go wide and his hand curls into a fist around the now-empty wrapper of his burger. Unseeing, he tosses it at the takeout bag in the footwell, missing by several inches. He looks down at his lap, frowning.

Disappointment squeezes at Castiel’s chest. “Is that a problem?” he asks, keeping his voice as flat as he can. 

Dean looks up, and he doesn’t seem angry or disgusted. If anything, he looks nervous. “No,” he croaks, then clears his throat. “No, not at all. I, um. I’m interested in both. Women and… and men.” After another beat, he adds, “I’m not ashamed of it. I just… I’ve never dated a guy, so people tend to assume, and I mostly let them.”

Castiel nods his acknowledgement. Their eyes meet for a moment, a silent understanding passing between them.

After a small eternity, Dean turns away to start the car.

On the drive home, Dean keeps his eyes on the road, but whenever Castiel looks away, he thinks he can feel the weight of Dean’s gaze on him.

*** 

The next afternoon, Dean is half-squatting below the undercarriage of an old Corvette that he’s got up on a lift to diagnose a suspension problem, when he hears a familiar, rumbling voice.

He ducks out from under the vehicle and spots Cas and Jimmy, talking to Bobby in the yard. 

Wiping his oily hands on the cleanest rag he can find, he strolls over just as Bobby waves an impatient hand at him.

“Get your ass over here, boy, ‘fore it grows roots,” Bobby calls. Catching sight of Cas’ raised eyebrow and Jimmy’s slack jaw, Bobby takes off his cap and scratches at the top of his head. “Sorry ‘bout the language. Not used to having little ones around.”

“Eh.” Jimmy shrugs. “It’s OK. I hear a lot worse at school.”

Cas frowns down at his son. “I’m afraid that’s true.” To Bobby, he adds, “Please don’t worry about it.”

Dean walks up, grinning at Bobby’s lingering discomfort. “You put your foot in your mouth again, Bobby?”

“You just remember who pays your wages,” Bobby growls. “Now go show yer neighbor where his car is.”

“Sure thing.” Still grinning, Dean claps Bobby on the back and motions for Cas and Jimmy to follow him. “Come on back. We’ll get your paperwork first, and I’ll walk you through what we did.”

They head to the back office, where Dean has to take a couple of minutes to dig through Bobby’s baffling filing system (or lack thereof) before he finds the Continental’s records.

Apparently getting impatient with the process, Jimmy wanders out of the office, studying the Corvette Dean was working on earlier with big eyes.

“Jimmy, be careful out there! Don’t touch anything,” Cas calls over his shoulder. Turning back to Dean, he says, “He has an amazing capacity for endangering himself. What six-year-old has broken a leg twice?”

Dean shoots him a lopsided grin. “A happy and active one.”

“I hope so,” Cas says quietly, looking down at the form in Dean’s hand. “That he’s happy, I mean. We get so little time together, I… I don’t always know.”

Dean’s hand itches with a sudden, fierce desire to reach out and offer some kind of comfort. Especially when Cas adds, “And with Meg coming home… they haven’t seen each other in years. He won’t remember her. I… I’m worried that—”

“ _Dad_!”

At the panicked edge of Jimmy’s voice, Cas’ head shoots up and he darts out of the office, Dean on his heels. Jimmy’s standing right where the open vehicle bays give way to the yard, looking out at something Dean can’t see just yet. 

“Are you OK?” Cas steps around Jimmy and grabs hold of his arm, eyes flitting up and down his body to check for any sign of injury. Jimmy nods and points over Cas’ shoulder.

Dean follows the line of Jimmy’s finger. Bobby’s still in the yard, but he’s not alone anymore.

Two strangers are there. One of them, thick-necked and broad-shouldered, has Bobby by the nape of his neck, pushing him down onto the hood of a badly dented Dodge Dart. The other, in track pants and a white, long-sleeved t-shirt, is leaning casually against the Dart’s back door. His hair is dirty blond, and his scruffy cheeks are hooked with a sharp leer that’s directed at Bobby’s prone form. The head of a snake tattoo peeks just past his collar, its forked tongue lapping at the side of his neck.

“I’ll be right back,” Dean growls. “Head on back to the office and don’t come out till I say.”

Before he can stalk off, Cas’ hand shoots out, fingers curling around Dean’s bicep. “Dean, is… is everything OK?”

Dean tries to smile reassuringly, but he suspects he falls way short. “Yeah, man, don’t worry about it. Just, um. A difficult customer.”

Cas still looks worried, but he lets Dean go and pulls Jimmy back towards the garage’s interior.

In half a dozen strides, Dean’s across the yard, planting his feet and squaring his shoulders to look as intimidating as possible. “You mind telling me why you’ve got my boss pinned against the hood of a damn car?”

The goon who’s holding Bobby doesn’t so much as turn, but the other guy gives him a lazy, assessing look. “Are you the one who drives for Crowley?”

Fuck. This guy knowing about his after-dark job can’t possibly be a good thing. “Who’s asking?” Dean’s had long years of practice at making his voice come out steady and threatening when he’s not feeling either of those things, but the guy seems unfazed.

“Nick Lucio.” He holds out his hand to shake. 

Dean crosses his arms, hoping he’s not about to get stabbed in the gut for it.

Nick chuckles, looking darkly amused. “Guess you could say I’m new to this part of town, and I’m checking out the… assets of the neighborhood.”

“If y’all are quite done exchanging pleasantries,” Bobby grunts from where the goon still has him pressed against the Dart.

Nick snaps his fingers, and the goon backs off, leaving Bobby to straighten with a wince. “My apologies,” Nick says, sweetly. “It sounded like you were telling me to, uh, ‘get off your fuckin’ property,’ and I thought I’d better correct that misconception.”

“What the blazes d’you mean, ‘misconception?’” Bobby snarls, not at all intimidated by the goon, who’s still standing too close to him for Dean’s comfort.

“You said you consider this place _your_ property,” Nick explains, studying a bit of dirt under one of his fingernails. “I’m telling you you’re wrong. This neighborhood, and everything in it, is mine. At least, it’s going to be very soon.”

Holy shit. This is even worse than Dean expected. 

Crowley’s sudden interest in an exclusive contract makes a lot more sense, if this bag of dicks is trying to move in on his territory.

“Crowley won’t like you harassing law-abiding business owners in the neighborhood,” Dean says, keeping his arms crossed, because if he doesn’t, he thinks his hands might shake.

“Ah, but that’s exactly why I’m here. Some of Crowley’s men thought they were better off trying their luck with _me_. I told them I needed a driver for a job I’ve got coming up. They said if I went looking for a Bobby Singer, I’d find the best damn driver in town working for him.”

“The kid’s got an exclusive arrangement with Crowley,” Bobby snarls. “And Crowley don’t take too kindly to people goin’ back on their word to him.”

Nick shrugs, unconcerned. “I have a feeling Crowley won’t be a problem for much longer. Trust me when I say that if you join up with me, I’ll have the resources to protect you.” He inclines his head at the garage, the closed door of the office just visible in the gloomy interior. “Why don’t we go inside? Talk terms?”

With an icy jolt, Dean thinks of Cas and Jimmy, probably still inside Bobby’s office, waiting for him. He needs to get this guy out of here. “Like Bobby said, I work for Crowley," he says, forcing himself to relax into a more casual stance. "Not sayin’ that can’t change. But we just met, and I don’t know you from Adam. What _guarantee_ do I have that you'll be able to back me up if I break my arrangement?”

Nick doesn’t say anything for a while. He looks Dean up and down, studying him. His eyes are blue, like Cas’, and yet nothing like them. There’s a cold detachment to them that makes the back of Dean’s neck prickle with unease.

“I think you’ll see soon enough how persuasive I can be.” Nick grins, canines sharp and glinting. “Be seeing you…” Nick’s eyes trail down Dean’s oil-stained coveralls until they rest on the small badge embroidered on the left side of his chest. “… Dean.”

Fuck. Well, if the guy didn’t know his name before, he certainly does now.

Dean stands frozen as Nick turns on his heel, gesturing for his goon to follow. He watches them walk away, Bobby practically vibrating next to him.

“The fuckin’ nerve of that—” Bobby starts, but Dean doesn’t let him finish. He stalks back to the office, trying his best to have his face composed by the time he opens the door.

Cas is there, looking a little unsettled, Jimmy on his lap. “Dean, is everything alright?”

“Fine.” Dean hopes he’s grinning, but even if he is, he doubts it’s very convincing. “Just a guy who didn’t feel like paying his bill. Sorry to keep you guys waiting. We can get you checked out now. Bet you’re glad to get your wheels back, huh, Cas?”

Cas smiles as he nudges Jimmy off his lap and gets up to follow Dean outside. “ _I_ am. Jimmy feels differently.”

“It’s _such_ a terrible car,” Jimmy groans, slouching next to them like he’s being weighed down by the sheer embarrassment of being seen in his dad’s (admittedly crappy) car.

“All cars are good cars if you take good care of them,” Dean lies through his teeth.

“Yours is better than ours though.” Jimmy pouts. “Why can’t _we_ have a car like yours?”

Cas smiles, ruffling Jimmy’s hair as he walks. “Dean does have a very cool car. But it would be boring if everyone had the same car, don’t you think?”

Jimmy shrugs. “I guess. I just like it.”

Struck by inspiration, Dean says, “Hey, tomorrow’s Sunday, right? Weather’s supposed to be nice too. Why don’t I take you guys for a drive? There’s a cool spot I wouldn’t mind showing you.”

They slow down as the Continental appears in their line of sight, past a pile of old, rusty parts. It gleams in the sunlight of late afternoon because maybe Dean threw in a little detailing for free.

Cas looks back and forth between Dean and the car, a small, pleased smile on his face. “We’d like that.”

*** 

Sunday dawns mild and sunny.

They set off in the early afternoon, heading out of downtown and driving up the winding, hilly road to the Griffith Observatory. Jimmy stares, slack-jawed, as he watches the hypnotic back-and-forth of the giant Foucault pendulum, and Castiel enjoys the way Dean’s eyes light up when he explains that the observatory’s dome was constructed in a way that makes the seams between panels practically invisible. 

Dean takes them out for burgers again, and pays before Castiel can stop him. Castiel insists on buying dessert to balance the scales, so they stop at an ice cream place in Westlake that Dean likes.

Castiel watches, entranced, when Dean takes a small spoonful of his mint chip and boops it on Jimmy’s nose, Jimmy shrieking in a frantic mix of disgust and delight as the mess runs down his face. Dean’s cackling laughter is so infectious that Castiel laughs until his ribs ache.

There’s a playground nearby, and they sit on one of the benches, watching Jimmy dangle off the monkey bars. Dean talks about his little brother Sam, who’s finishing up his junior year at Stanford. He knows Sam's exact score on the SATs, and spends a great deal of time complaining about the state of his brother's hair. Eyes alight with mischief, Dean remembers a time when he snuck up on a sleeping Sam and covered his head in shaving cream. Dean blushes a little when he talks about how he dreamed of becoming an actor, until he realized he had no talent for it. Castiel finds it hard to believe no one would give Dean a job in front of the camera. If any face was meant to be seen on a forty-foot-tall celluloid canvas, it’s surely Dean’s.

Dean asks after Castiel’s family, and even though it’s usually a painful subject, Castiel finds himself talking more about his parents and brother than he has in years. The way his mother would sing as she moved around the kitchen. That time Michael tried to convince Castiel there was a real angel living in their garden shed. 

Eventually, a comfortable silence falls between them, and they watch the sun sink below the hills in the distance as Jimmy takes ever more daring leaps off the side of the play structure.

When it gets too dark to keep playing, they start driving: down LA’s long, billboard-littered boulevards, and up the winding roads into the hills. Eventually, Jimmy curls up on the seat between them, his head in Castiel’s lap. Castiel strokes absently at his son’s messy hair, until he feels his breaths even out.

He nods at Dean to get his attention, then jerks his chin down at Jimmy. Dean’s face softens. “You wanna head home?” he whispers.

More than anything, Castiel wants to say "no." But he nods. “I should put him to bed.”

When Dean pulls to a stop in the garage below the apartment building, he inclines his head at Jimmy, still curled up and fast asleep. “Mind if I carry him? Doesn’t seem like you can move without waking him up.”

A surge of affection wells up in Castiel’s chest, all the more powerful for how unexpected it is. He nods his permission. With remarkable gentleness, Dean cradles Jimmy’s head and scoops him into his arms as he backs out of the front seat.

Castiel slides out of the car and watches as, with a quiet, “Come on, buddy,” Dean settles Jimmy against his chest. Jimmy gives a grumpy growl, but then he stills, his small, dark head resting against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean keeps a firm hold on Jimmy all the way to Castiel’s apartment, where Castiel motions for Dean to follow him back to the bedroom. Carefully, Dean lowers the small, limp body onto the bedspread, then retreats to the doorframe to watch as Castiel pulls off Jimmy’s shoes and tucks him in.

Jimmy doesn’t wake when Castiel steps away, or when he backs out of the room.

Dean heads for the apartment door, and Castiel realizes that watching Dean walk through it is the last thing in the world he wants. 

As Dean reaches for the doorknob, Castiel stops him with a hand on his wrist, pulling a little until Dean turns back to face him.

“He had a good time,” Castiel says quietly. “Thank you.”

“Oh, um. You’re… you’re welcome.” Dean rubs at the back of his neck. He looks down at where Castiel is still holding on to his wrist. “Did... _you_?” Dean shuffles his feet, shifting towards Castiel until he can almost feel the soft, solid warmth Dean radiates. “Have a good time?”

When Dean raises his head again, they’re much closer than Castiel realized. They’re almost the same height, and there’s no more than a few inches of space left between them.

“I did,” Castiel whispers. He still hasn’t let go of Dean’s wrist. He feels a prickling under his skin, little champagne bubbles of anticipation all over.

The bubbles explode, one by one, in agonizing slow motion, when Dean raises his free hand to Castiel’s hip, stroking a gentle finger across the jut of bone there.

“I… yeah, me too,” Dean croaks.

Castiel uses his hold on Dean’s wrist to pull him closer still, until soft, plush lips brush against his. He closes his eyes and leans into the hand that has now left his hip and come up to cup his jaw.

When Dean tilts his head just a little, their mouths are slotted at the perfect angle, moving sweet and unhurried against each other. A soft sigh escapes Castiel, and he lets go of Dean’s wrist so he can slide an arm around his waist.

He doesn’t know how many minutes pass like this, the two of them holding each other chest to chest, lips and tongues and hands exploring, testing limits.

Just as Castiel feels his breath start to come faster, Dean pulls back. “That was… unexpected,” Dean says, his voice a low, breathy rasp.

“Yes,” Castiel says, feeling his cheeks warm as he steps back a little, trying to give Dean space if he wants it. “I’m sorry if I was… out of line.”

“Dude, no.” Dean steps forward, chasing after Castiel and grabbing hold of one of his hands. “I liked it. Just… didn’t expect it.”

“OK.” Castiel knows he should let Dean go. They both have work in the morning, and this moment is wonderful — a good note to end on. 

But for once in his life, he wants to be _greedy._

So he says, “I don’t think I’m ready for sleep. Would you like to stay and watch a movie?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Dean whispers a soft kiss against the side of Castiel’s head. When they sit down on the couch, Castiel presses against Dean’s side, and Dean pulls up his arm so Castiel can slot himself under it.

When he wakes hours later, he’s alone, but tucked securely under a warm blanket.

*** 

On Monday night, Inferno Pizza burns.

It’s no great loss for LA’s culinary scene, Dean figures, but it doesn’t bode well for Crowley’s future, and, therefore, Dean’s.

The next day, local news airs an interview with the fire marshal, who drones on about an electrical fault. Somehow, Dean doesn’t think that’s the real story. Nick’s parting words echo in his ears: “I think you’ll see soon enough how persuasive I can be.”

That night, a little after ten p.m., Dean has his theory confirmed by Crowley himself. Crowley supplies all of Dean’s burner phones these days, so when one of them rings, there’s not much doubt as to who might be calling.

“This is Dean.”

“Crowley here.” A beat of silence. “I’m guessing you heard.”

“I did. Do I need to be worried?”

“Not at all.” There might be a slight edge to Crowley’s voice, but Dean could be imagining that. “Just be aware that a man named Nick Lucio may try to approach you or Bobby.”

“He already has.”

Dean definitely doesn’t imagine the sudden intake of breath at the other end of the line. “What did he say?”

“He wants me to come work for him.”

“And what did _you_ say?”

“I told him I have an exclusive arrangement with you.”

“Good boy.” Dean bristles at the condescending, oily tone, and bites down on his cheek to keep his mouth shut. Now is not the time. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

Dean bites harder, but it’s no good. “Is that a threat?” There’s no disguising the sharp irritation in Dean’s voice, and Crowley’s prolonged silence is eloquent.

“It could be,” Crowley says, finally, voice tight but level. “If you so much as consider making a nuisance of yourself, just remember Lucio isn’t the only one who can play with fire. Be a shame if old Bobby’s garage went up in flames.”

Dean forces himself to breathe. Nice and slow. Keep it together. Don’t get angry.

“I’ll honor my agreement.”

“Good.”

With that, the line goes dead.

Every single one of Dean’s nerve endings is still thrumming by the time he pulls into the parking garage at home.

As he rides the elevator to the fourth floor, he considers whether Cas might still be awake. They haven’t seen each other since Sunday night. Since Cas fell asleep on Dean’s shoulder and Dean carefully extricated himself, pulling Cas’ blanket over him before he walked out the door.

After biting every single one of his fingernails down to the quick, Dean texted the next afternoon to ask if Cas wanted to hang out that night. It turned out Cas couldn’t, because he had another late shift. It seemed like he was sorry, but that kind of thing is hard to tell from a text.

Maybe texting again now is a good plan. That way, if Cas is asleep, Dean won’t bother him by knocking on his door.

It turns out he needn’t have bothered making _any_ kind of plan, because as soon as he steps out of the elevator, the sound of an upbeat hip-hop song drifts down the corridor. It’s coming from Cas’ apartment, whose door is ajar.

Cas is sitting on the floor just outside it, legs stretched in front of him, twirling a half-empty beer bottle between long, graceful fingers.

“Hey, you.” 

At the sound of Dean’s voice, Cas looks up. He seems tired again, all deep shadows, sharp angles and messy hair. “Hello, Dean.” There’s the slightest hint of an upward quirk to Cas’ mouth, but it’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing. “Sorry about the noise.”

“I should call the cops.” Dean grins and adds an exaggerated wink, hoping it’ll bring back that almost-smile.

“I wish you would,” Cas says, and he does smile again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Didn’t peg you for the partying kind.” With a grunt, Dean lowers himself down to the floor until he’s got his back against the wall. They’re close enough that their shoulders are almost touching.

“I’m not,” Cas says, staring at the swirl of foam inside his bottle. “Meg is.”

“Oh.” Dean bites at his lip, wondering how much he should pry. He settles on, “So she got out today?”

Cas nods. “This afternoon. She decided to invite some friends over to celebrate.”

Dean fixes his eyes on the pattern of the wallpaper opposite him, counting the squares to keep from doing something stupid like pulling Cas in for a kiss right there in the hallway. “I’m guessing they’re not friends of _yours_ , especially?”

Cas takes another swig from his bottle. “Meg was always the one who made friends. I haven’t seen these people in years.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. The concrete floor beneath the threadbare carpet is starting to make his ass hurt. “Where’s Jimmy?”

“He was at the party for a while, but it got to be late for him to be up, so I asked one of the neighbors to take him for the night. The downstairs one who watches him when I have to work.”

Dean probably shouldn’t say what he thinks about that, but he’s never claimed to be a smart man. “His mom’s been in prison for three years. Seems like she should wanna spend her first night back with her son.”

Cas shrugs, his face a painfully tight grimace. “She said she was in the mood to celebrate. I suppose she’s entitled.”

Inside Cas’ apartment, the music changes. The next song is something vaguely in the electronic genre, but slow, mournful-sounding.

Cas drains the rest of his beer and rises off the floor. “I should head back inside,” he mumbles. “It was nice to see you, Dean.”

From inside the apartment, a female singer's soft voice joins the melody.

_I don’t eat_

_I don’t sleep_

Cas turns, and Dean is suddenly so tired of seeing that defeated slump of his shoulders every time he walks away.

“Or you could… um, crash at my place?” He gestures at Cas’ half-open apartment door. “Seems like they’re good to go for a little while in there.”

_I do nothing but think of you_

Cas looks back and forth between Dean and the door for another moment. The sound of cackling laughter emerges from his apartment, loud and jarring. That seems to decide Cas, because he turns to face Dean fully. “Yes, I… I would like that. Thank you, Dean.”

“Anytime, dude.” 

_You keep me under your spell_

_You keep me under your spell_

Dean smiles and gets up to unlock his door. Cas follows him inside.

Dean throws up the chain and flicks on the overhead light. He hears a clink as Cas sets down his beer bottle someplace. When he turns, he’s face to face with Cas.

“Oh. Hi.”

Instead of answering, Cas crowds into Dean’s space and pushes at his chest until Dean’s back is to the door.

Dean’s entire face goes slack when he gets a good look at Cas, blue eyes dark and questioning, searching his face for permission. “Is this OK?” Cas asks, his voice a bottomless rumble.

Dean nods frantically. Before his brain regains the ability to make words or tell him this might be a bad idea, he’s already pulled Cas the rest of the way in.

They’re chest to chest, lips meeting in a frenzied slide, breath mingling, fingers cupping cheeks and tugging at hair. Dean is so dazed by the suddenness of it all, he barely notices Cas nudging one leg between both of his until Cas is _right there_ , pushing his half-hard length against Dean’s hip.

There’s nothing but _Cas_ now, the taste of him as his tongue teases at Dean’s palate, the feel of him as Dean slides both hands under his shirt and strokes up and down his sides, the sound of him as he moans quietly into their kiss and presses even closer.

Cas moves away, just a little, and Dean almost chases him, but then he hears a clink of metal and realizes, _holy shit,_ Cas is undoing his belt.

“Are you…” Dean swallows, tries again. “Are you clean?” He feels Cas’ nod in a scrape of stubble, punctuated by open-mouthed kisses to his pulse point. “Yeah, me… me too. Got tested last week.”

Instead of responding, Cas crowds back into his space, panting against Dean’s lips between kisses, nipping at them, and Dean reaches down to work on his own belt, which, goddammit, has never been this hard to undo before.

The front of his jeans feels uncomfortably tight, and he’s thrusting into and against any part of Cas he can reach. He can barely scrape enough brain cells together to undo his zipper over the hard line of his cock. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize he’s going to need both hands for that job, so he pulls back the one that had a death grip on Cas’ hip. But Cas presses closer again, taking hold of both of Dean’s wrists and pulling on them until Dean’s hands come to rest on two firm, round ass cheeks.

With a ragged exhale, Dean yanks Cas toward him, barely even caring that Cas never actually got out of his _damn pants_ , because Dean just needs to be touching something, anything, even if it’s under a layer of fabric.

“Let me take care of you,” Cas rumbles as he grinds their crotches together, hot breath puffing against Dean’s lips as he speaks. Dean’s last working brain cell leaves the building, because that sounded like Cas meant he wanted to blow him. Which is something another guy has done for him exactly once.

Cas backs up a little, just enough to get his hands on Dean’s fly and ease it open with a whole lot more deliberation than anything they’ve done so far.

And then Cas falls to his _fucking knees_ , pulling Dean’s jeans and boxers along for the ride until Dean is bare, his dick aching and inches from Cas’ face.

Dean blinks, hard, because this has to be some kind of hallucination. Not five minutes ago, he was in the elevator, daydreaming about texting Cas and maybe trying for another kiss, and now…

Now Cas is cupping himself through his boxers, breathing fast and choppy as he pulls himself out.

Dean tries to say, “Cas, we can slow this down if you want to,” but he only gets as far as “can” before Cas leans forward and takes him inside the wet, tight heat of his mouth.

It’s sloppy, and there’s a moment where Cas’ teeth scrape uncomfortably against him, but Dean’s knees damn near buckle at the feeling of Cas’ plush lips stretching around his length. Cas makes up for his sloppy technique with enthusiasm, licking at the underside of Dean’s cock, tonguing over his slit, palate bumping against his tip.

“Cas,” he croaks. Cas moans around him and reaches for Dean’s hand, settling it on top of his head. Dean gives an experimental tug at Cas’ gorgeous, soft, messy hair, and Cas makes a deep, rumbling sound of approval, speeding up his pace.

The sound of skin stroking skin, faster and faster, fills the room, and the thought of Cas enjoying this, liking it so much he needs to touch himself, has Dean embarrassingly close to the edge already.

“Cas,” he says again, barely conscious of the words as they leave his mouth. “So good. So good, man, feels so fucking good. I, I think I—”

Dean has just enough willpower left to try to pull back, but Cas reaches for him and tugs him closer, and that little yank is enough to have him spilling into Cas’ mouth with a broken shout.

He slides down the door, rubber-boned, to find himself face to face with Cas, who looks flushed and tousled and beautiful. He’s still jerking off, lips parted as he rocks into his fist. And even though Dean’s exhausted, even though he wants almost nothing more than to collapse straight into bed and sleep all night, there’s one thing he does want more.

He curls his fingers around Cas’ wrist to still the slide of his hand. Ignoring Cas’ whine of protest at that, he grabs hold of the side of his neck and pulls him close for a kiss, sloppy and messy and utterly perfect. He gets one hand onto Cas’ back and lowers him, as gently as he’s able, down to the floor.

When he pulls out of the kiss and opens his eyes, he’s face to face with heated, hooded blue. Dean smiles and slides down Cas’ chest, leaving a trail of kisses and lingering touches as he goes.

Cas was close, Dean knows, and he’s still twitching and squirming and trying to buck up his hips, but Dean holds on to those wickedly sharp points and laps his tongue up Cas’ shaft, just teasing for now.

Then he spreads Cas’ thighs, settles between them and sinks down.

He wraps his hand around the base of Cas’ cock, caressing with the tight ring of his fingers what his mouth can’t reach, and Cas is writhing in earnest now, chest heaving with ragged, panting breaths.

“Dean. Dean, I—”

He sinks down as far as he can go, drunk with the sound of his name on Cas’ lips. Speeding up his movements, Dean lets go of every last thought, tightening the seal of his lips around Cas’ weight on his tongue until he feels the splash of salty heat.

Dean swallows and collapses onto sweaty, sticky skin. He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to move.

Except…

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“Am I crushing you?”

A breathless chuckle. “I’m alright.” A few seconds pass as they lie there, breath slowing and sweat cooling on tired limbs. 

“The floor _is_ getting a little uncomfortable,” Cas says, sounding almost embarrassed to mention it.

“Oh, right.” Dean springs to his feet with as much grace as he can manage right now, which isn’t much. “Sorry, man.” He tucks himself away, then holds out his hand. Cas uses it to pull himself up, bringing them face to face again. Dean’s brain instantly supplies him with flashbacks to the last time they were standing this close, just a few minutes ago, and what followed right after.

This time, though, instead of surging forward, Cas steps back as he zips up his jeans. “It's... probably better if I head back to the party after all,” he says, looking a little embarrassed.

As if on cue, the sound of at least three different people whooping echoes down the hall outside.

“Right, um. OK,” Dean says. “If you’re sure.”

Cas doesn’t _look_ sure, but he nods. “Yes, I… Meg will expect me home.”

He turns to leave, heading for the door with slow, dragging steps. It feels wrong. Amazed at his own daring, Dean blurts out, “You know, you don’t _have_ to go. If you don’t wanna, I mean. Offer still stands.”

Cas doesn’t know it, of course, but this is a big deal. Dean never asks people to stay over after a hookup, and he’s certainly never asked a guy. Any time he’s been with another man, they were hurried encounters in back alleys or club bathrooms.

Cas blinks hard, half facing the door and half facing Dean. “I suppose, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I could sleep on your couch.” He grimaces, a little self-conscious. “I’m used to it.”

“Or,” Dean says, around a sudden flutter of nerves, “you could sleep in my bed. With me. If you want.”

Cas steps away from the door, a shy, hopeful smile on his face. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like things are going OK for our boys, right? 
> 
> *backs away*
> 
> Next week: Dean makes a fateful decision. Meg has dangerous baggage. Cas is forced to confront an uncomfortable truth.


	3. Where's the Deluxe Version?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a scene in this chapter that may be upsetting for some. It describes the immediate aftermath of an act of violence, and the reaction of a witness. If you're concerned, consider reading the spoilery description in the chapter endnote.

Dean’s always been a light sleeper.

After his mother died, when Dean was ten and Sammy six, chances were about even that his dad would be tying one on at some dive instead of coming home after work. Which meant that if Sam had a nightmare, or fell out of bed, or tried to sneak out of the house, or did any of the five thousand other things little kids do to endanger themselves… Dean was the one who needed to notice and take care of it, whatever that entailed. 

He never lost the habit of sleeping with one ear open. So when there’s a creak and shuffle next to him, followed by the mattress rising just a little, his eyes snap wide open from one split-second to the next.

They land on Cas, sitting at the very edge of the bed like he’s working up the nerve to face the day.

“Morning,” Dean croaks.

Cas flinches and turns. “Good morning. I was hoping to leave without waking you.”

Dean rubs at his face, grimacing. So it’s going to be _that_ kind of conversation. “Um. Ouch.”

Cas squints in confusion for a second before realization seems to dawn, and confusion is replaced by consternation. “No, I… I didn’t mean it like that! I just… my shift at the diner starts at seven, and I suspect you don’t usually have to be up at dawn. So I was going to let you sleep.” One of the corners of his mouth ticks up ever so slightly. “I would have left a note.”

Dean rolls onto his side, propping up his head on one hand so he can get a better look at Cas. Sleep-rumpled, and backlit by the greyish early-morning light peeking around the edges of the blinds, he looks even less put together than usual. But the softness of it suits him. “Do you have to leave right now?”

Cas picks up his phone off the nightstand and taps the slightly cracked screen. “I have to pick up Jimmy and get him ready for school, but I suppose I could stay a few more minutes.”

Early morning isn’t Dean’s most eloquent time of day, so instead of saying anything else, he reaches out and takes hold of Cas’ arm to pull him back down. Cas comes willingly, landing on the sheets next to Dean with a huff.

A little shyly, Dean lifts up one arm, hoping he doesn’t smell too bad. If he does, Cas doesn’t seem to mind, because he ducks right under it and rests his head on Dean’s chest.

They lie like that for a minute before Cas clears his throat. “Last night. Was… that OK?”

“Um.” Dean’s having trouble making words again. Usually, he thinks of himself as a pretty confident guy. But there’s just something about Cas that has him slightly off-balance at all times. “Yeah, man,” he says eventually. “You keep doing stuff I wasn’t really expecting to happen, but I… I was definitely on board with it, if you’re worried about that.”

“No, I meant… That’s good to know, but…” Even in the dim light, when Dean dips his chin to look at Cas, he can tell Cas’ cheeks are turning a lovely shade of pink. “Did I do it right?”

Dean grins as he cards a hand through Cas’ hair. “Well, if the point was to give me an amazing orgasm, then you did just fine, buddy.”

Cas gives a mirthless chuckle. “That’s nice of you to say, but you don’t have to humor me. I know it probably wasn’t the greatest. I’m not very experienced, sexually.”

“Dude, you’ve got a kid, and he’s your spitting image. You’ve definitely had _some_ sex.”

Cas sighs heavily, like it’s not something he particularly likes to think about. “Only with Meg.”

“Wow, that’s…” It takes a few moments for the pieces to slot into place. “Hold on just a second. Last night was your first time doing _anything_ with a guy?”

Another sigh. “Anything more than kissing, yes.”

Dean sits up, wide awake now. Cas scrambles up next to him. “Dude, you should have told me. We could’ve, I dunno, taken our time. Made it to an actual bed, at least.”

Not that Dean’s ever managed that with a guy. Still, that doesn’t mean Cas deserved to have _his_ first time on Dean’s dirty floor.

“It was mostly my fault that we didn’t,” Cas mumbles. The set of his shoulders is suddenly stiff, tense. “But I… enjoyed myself very much.”

More than anything, Dean wants to see that tension melt out of Cas, so he reaches out for Cas’ hand where it’s curled into a fist atop his thigh. “Me too, Cas. And I… I don’t have that much experience with guys either, so we’re in the same boat here.”

Cas looks up in surprise when Dean takes hold of his hand, threading their fingers together. Their eyes meet, and Dean leans in for a kiss. Nothing exciting — just a short, chaste peck — but Cas’ face softens after, and his lips twitch upwards a little.

Dean gives Cas’ hand a quick squeeze. “I promise we’re good. Now go get your kid.”

Cas squeezes back, then gets up and pulls on his jeans. When he reaches the bedroom door, he turns back to take another good, long look at Dean.

“I’ll see you later, Cas,” Dean says quietly, and with a small nod, Cas is gone.

*** 

When Castiel steps into his apartment, Meg is sitting up on the small camp bed in the far corner, cradling a mug of coffee in both hands. Castiel is still getting used to her formerly dark hair being dyed blonde now, and to the intricately textured snake tattoo curving up her arm.

“Well, look who finally decided to show his face.” Meg smirks around the rim of her mug. “Thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, Clarence.”

Castiel sets his keys down on the side table next to the door and rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s too tired for this. “Please stop calling me that.”

Meg chuckles, darkly. She’s always loved winding him up. “You were the one who asked me to in the first place.”

Castiel shuffles into the kitchen and pours himself a mug of his own. “I was sixteen, you’d just made me watch _True Romance_ , and I was tired of being 'that kid with the weird name.'”

He takes a sip, flinching at the scalding temperature. Meg hasn’t been up for long, if the coffee’s still this hot. Or maybe she never went to bed at all.

Meg snorts. “You wanted a less weird name, and you went with Clarence. I’ll never get over that.” When Castiel doesn’t react, she adds, “Seriously though, _Castiel_ , where’d you go?”

Her voice is teasing, but there’s a hint of genuine worry underneath it. Castiel hears it only because of how long he’s known Meg. “It’s none of your business.”

When he looks up, Meg is scanning his face. She has the glint in her eye that means she’s about to say something very perceptive or extremely embarrassing. Possibly both. “Were you with that Dean guy?”

Castiel almost drops his mug. “What makes you say that?” he asks, hoping against hope that he sounds more convincing to Meg than he does to himself. 

Meg’s face tilts into a smug, lopsided grin. “You mentioned he was your next-door neighbor, and that he’s been helping you out. And you got this kind of glowy puppy look when you talked about him. Didn’t take much to put two and two together.”

Annoyed, Castiel taps his fingers against the kitchen countertop. “It’s still none of your business. I’m going to pick up Jimmy now. Are you planning to spend any time with him today?”

Meg’s face stiffens, just a little, but she nods. “Sure. I’ll pick him up from school. Just tell me where and when.”

Castiel wipes a hand down his face, trying not to picture Jimmy’s expression when he finds the stranger who moved in yesterday waiting for him at school. “I’ll make sure you’re on the approved pickup list.”

He takes one more sip of his coffee and heads for the door, picking up his keys along the way out of habit.

“You don’t have to lock me in, Clarence. I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel isn’t sure whether he truly believes that, or even whether he wants to, but he smiles back at Meg over his shoulder. “Right. Sorry. It’ll take some getting used to, having somebody else stay here.”

“But we’ll be fine.” Castiel hears the question lurking just beneath Meg’s statement.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We’ll be fine.”

He’s just turned to go again when Meg’s voice sounds behind him. “You should invite your boy toy for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll even cook.”

*** 

Dean looks down at his phone, studying the text from Cas.

_Meg asked me to invite you to dinner tomorrow. She wants to get to know you, but please don’t feel obligated._

There's a lot to unpack here. Meg’s the one asking him to dinner, not Cas. _Meg_ wants to get to know him.

But why? Does she know what happened between him and Cas? What has Cas told her? Cas seems to be trying to give him an out, but is that for Dean’s comfort or because Cas doesn’t actually want him to come?

Dean shifts uncomfortably in the Impala’s front seat. He’s been feeling tired and irritable all afternoon, and he doesn’t exactly feel up to dealing with this.

Until a few hours ago, he was scheduled to be on set to shoot another car chase. But when he arrived, he was told the production had run out of money and was being shut down until further notice. The camera equipment was already being disassembled and restored to its crates, and a few disgruntled contractors were busy grabbing everything that wasn’t nailed down. The sight left a weird taste in his mouth, but when he spotted his head-covering stunt mask on one of the makeup tables, he grabbed it on a whim. Something to remember the job by, even if it came to a shitty end.

He’s not even that annoyed about the lost income. It’s an inconvenience, sure, but he’s agreed to work a job for one of Crowley’s people later this week and Sam’s expenses are paid through the end of the school year, so it’s not like Dean’s about to starve.

No, the real reason he’s upset is because he was thinking about asking Cas if he and Jimmy wanted to come visit the set one day. The kid’s clearly interested in cars, and who wouldn’t want to watch a movie being made? He might not get another chance any time soon, movie work being so unpredictable that months will sometimes go by between gigs.

But now, staring at Cas’ text so hard his eyes are starting to hurt, he wonders if Cas and Jimmy will even want to spend time with him like that anymore.

Meg is back in their lives. Apparently, she wants to get to know Dean, but what if they don’t get along? Cas doesn’t seem happy to have her home, exactly, and she doesn’t sound like the family type, but she’s still Jimmy’s mom. If it comes down to a choice between Dean and Meg, it seems pretty damn clear which way that’s going to go.

The thought suddenly makes it hard to breathe.

And that’s his answer, isn’t it? If he won’t be able to see Cas and Jimmy like before, he’ll have to take what he can get.

Thumbs slow and clumsy on the screen, he types out a reply: _Just tell me the time and I’ll be there._

*** 

“So how did you guys meet?”

Dean’s question is directed at Meg, and he’s smiling around the bite of spaghetti in his mouth, but Castiel sees something shaky around the edges of that smile. Dean has seemed off-balance ever since he arrived half an hour ago with a toy car for Jimmy and an awkward wave for the rest of them.

Meg puts down her fork and leans back in her chair, legs spread out under the table, settling in for the story. She’s wearing a long-sleeved, collared blouse today, and her normally tousled hair is tied back in a neat ponytail. Castiel has rarely seen her this put-together. “Well, we were just babies, really, both sixteen. Clarence here was going to save my soul.”

Castiel rolls his eyes at her. “What she’s trying to say is, we met through a mentoring group at my parents’ church.”

“You remember the first thing you said to me?” Meg chuckles, her eyes warming with the memory. It’s one of her favorite stories to tell. “I said, ‘Good to meet you. I’m your standard juvenile offender.’ And you said…”

Castiel knows his line and delivers it seamlessly. “I said, ‘Where’s the deluxe version?’”

Meg cackles, and Dean gives a small, polite chuckle in response.

“Anyway, Clarence was supposed to be showing me the path to righteousness, but instead, I got to corrupt him.” Meg’s smile takes on a sharper edge, and she winks ostentatiously at Castiel. Out of the corner of his eyes, Castiel sees Dean’s fingers tighten around his fork.

“Dad, what’s ‘corrupt’ mean?” Jimmy looks uncertainly at Meg before his questioning eyes land on Castiel.

“Don’t worry about it, Jimbo.” Meg grins at Jimmy and ruffles his hair. 

Jimmy glares at her. He hates it when people condescend to him, which is just one of the many things his mother should know about him.

Meg’s grin falters a little under Jimmy’s narrow-eyed scrutiny, but she soldiers on. “Hey, if you’re all done with your spaghetti, why don’t you go play with that awesome new car?”

Jimmy stops glaring, eyes wide and pleading when he turns to Castiel. “Can I, Dad?”

Castiel nods. “You don’t have to check with me, Jimmy. Mom already said it’s OK.”

Meg’s face softens a little as she looks back at Castiel, but the softness disappears when Jimmy says, “Cool. Thanks, Meg,” and runs off to his room, grabbing the car off the coffee table as he goes.

Trying to take the focus off Meg, who is still staring at the place where Jimmy disappeared, Castiel turns to Dean. “We asked him to call her ‘Mom,’ but it’s kind of a work in progress.”

Dean nods, unsmiling, and an awkward silence falls.

“Well, Dean-o, I guess I should be thanking you,” Meg says suddenly, voice tight with forced cheer. “You know, for taking care of my boys.” 

“You’re welcome,” Dean says. “I’m right next door, so any time Cas needs help, I’m there.”

The words sound pleasant and reassuring, but there’s a challenge sparking at the back of Dean’s eyes.

Meg picks up her fork again, jaw working. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I think we’re good here. If Clarence needs anything, I can help him out, right?”

Before Castiel can respond, Dean says, frowning, “Why do you keep calling him that? His name is Cas.”

“Castiel, actually,” Meg says coldly. “Just a little in-joke between the two of us. We have those, because in case you didn’t know, he was _my_ boyfriend first.” She leans forward, fixing Dean with a glare. “I provided for him, and for Jimmy, when we had nothing. You think you can just barge in with your Ken doll face and your stupid freckles and take my family away from me?”

“For God’s sake, would you stop?” Castiel hisses at her, conscious of Jimmy in the other room, probably listening to every word.

Dean swallows heavily. “I’m sorry, Cas. I… guess I’d better go. Early start tomorrow. Tell Jimmy I’ll see him around.”

Wiping his mouth on a napkin, Dean rises from his chair and heads for the door without so much as a glance at either Castiel or Meg. The door closes behind him with a thud.

“For fuck’s sake, Meg. What’s wrong with you?” Castiel keeps his voice deliberately low, but makes sure every bit of his irritation shines through.

Meg narrows her eyes at him. “He started it.”

Castiel shakes his head in disbelief. “Your own son is more mature than you.” He gets up. “I need five minutes. Keep an eye on Jimmy, if you think you can manage.”

Instead of waiting for her response, he storms out of the apartment. Dean’s door is already closed, so Castiel knocks emphatically.

Dean opens the door almost at once, surprise written on his face. “Cas, what…”

Castiel gives him no time to finish his question. Instead, he crowds into Dean’s apartment, into Dean’s space, and pours all his frustration into a frenzied, bruising kiss.

When Dean pulls back, gasping, his hair is a mess and his breath is coming in quick pants. “What’d I do to deserve _that_?”

Castiel reaches down for Dean’s hand and watches his thumb stroke calming circles across Dean’s knuckles. “Sat through dinner with Meg, who was behaving like a crazy person. Which isn’t entirely out of character for her, but tonight was extreme.” He looks up to meet Dean’s eyes. “She’s been having a hard time adjusting, but it’s not really any sort of excuse. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean cups Castiel’s cheek, stroking across it with his thumb. “It’s OK, Cas. You kinda made it worth my while just now.”

Castiel hums, then steps forward again, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and resting his forehead against the side of Dean’s neck. “I think I also wanted to remind you that Meg and I are not together, and this entire situation is very much temporary. I know we just… I don’t want to be presumptuous, but if you’d like to be in my life, and in Jimmy’s life, in any way… I’d be happy to have you there.” He steps back and looks up to find Dean’s eyes wide with astonishment.

“So that’s why I came over,” Castiel finishes, somewhat lamely.

Dean leans in for another kiss. It’s nothing like the last one — it’s a slow, careful thing, suffused with tenderness and reassurance. When Dean pulls back, there’s a small, shy smile on his face.

“Yeah, Cas. I’m here. For you, and for Jimmy. Whichever way you want me to be.”

*** 

Dean is in the driver’s seat of a 2012 Honda Accord with a V8 under the hood. According to his phone’s timer app, he arrived thirty seconds ago. Four minutes thirty to go.

He stares at the entrance of the bank, willing his passengers to emerge. It’s broad daylight, which makes this job extra-risky, but there’s also another consideration: the bank is directly opposite the Gas-n-Sip where Cas works.

Dean’s not even sure Cas is working there this afternoon, but of all the ways Cas could find out about Dean’s less-than-legal side gig, watching him drive some bank robbers away from a crime scene isn’t one of the better ones.

He should’ve told Cas last night. As soon as there was any suggestion whatsoever that they were going to be more than occasional hookup buddies, Dean should’ve told him.

To be fair, the whole thing kind of caught him off guard. He had a crush on Cas even when they were just neighbors who exchanged occasional pleasantries in the hallway. But even after their night together, he figured he was probably just an experiment for Cas, or, at best, a friend.

Now, he finds himself with a chance to get everything he’s ever wanted — someone to love, a family of his own — and it’s so close to reality, he can almost taste it.

But Cas doesn’t know about _this_ , about Dean’s other life. And considering how his relationship with Meg ended, he’s not going to take the news especially well, is he?

The police scanner on the seat next to Dean crackles to life.

_Attention all units, 211S at Chase Bank, 100 North La Cienega._

Dean’s mind kicks into high gear. Code 211 means someone set off a robbery alarm; ‘S’ is for a silent alarm. Those idiots better hurry.

As if on cue, the door of the bank opens, and two masked men emerge, running. They’re armed, but no one’s shooting, and there’s three minutes left on the clock. Already doing better than last time.

The men slide into the back seat, and Dean floors it, listening for the crackle of the scanner.

Several units call in, but the closest one is still a mile away. With a screech of tires, Dean hangs left on Wilshire Boulevard and speeds down it for several blocks, changing lanes until the parking lot for the La Brea Tar Pits comes into view. He pulls up just shy of the lot, in a no-parking zone along the curb. As soon as the car comes to a stop, he grabs his duffle and jumps out.

Fridays are always big field trip days, and the parking lot is swarming with students being shepherded into or out of the gates. Each group is wearing colored t-shirts emblazoned with the logo of their school. None of them are from Loyola High, which is what it says on the shirt Dean is pulling over his head, but the cover is good enough to buy him time.

He gets in the ticket line and spends half an hour admiring fiberglass mammoth sculptures caught in bubbling tar. Every so often, he stops at a quiet corner to press the police scanner to his ear.

The car’s been found in the parking lot, but there was no one inside.

When Dean figures it’s safe, he heads back to the entrance and walks half a mile down Alandale, to where he’s left his Baby in the parking lot of the Westside Jewish Community Center.

Riding high on the satisfaction of a job well done, he lets himself forget about his troubles for a while, enjoying the way the afternoon sun paints the city’s concrete canyons with a soft, golden glow. He doesn’t want to head home just yet, so he takes a detour through the hills.

Sometimes, the distant view of mansions clinging to the cliffs behind tall fences and forbidding security gates makes him feel small and resentful. Today, with the knowledge of what this job could net him, what he’ll still get to make before he gets his free pass out of this life, he lets himself dream of buying a house like that. Cas could come visit him and maybe, one day, they would live there together. They could sit on a nice, roomy back porch with a million-dollar view, having a couple of beers while they watch Jimmy bounce around the backyard. 

It’s a nice image.

Pulling into the parking garage at home, Dean still hasn’t shaken his daydream and how content it makes him feel, but his smile falls when he spots two men walking towards him from the direction of the elevator. One of them is the goon who had Bobby pinned against the hood of a car. The other one doesn’t look familiar, but he’s built the same. Both are in short-sleeved shirts, and Dean can see identical, heavily textured snakes winding their way up each man’s arm.

There’s blood on their knuckles.

He pulls into the nearest open spot and prays the guy from the garage doesn’t recognize him. He’s not one to shy away from a fight, but even with the knife he keeps in his glove box, he doubts he could go up against two guys built like that, especially without the element of surprise on his side. He never carries a gun; it's just another one of the rules that keep him out of trouble when he works getaways.

Dean’s karma is apparently lousy, because the goon from the garage catches his eye in the rear-view mirror as he walks by. The guy shoots him a smirk, clearly recognizing him, but he keeps walking.

They didn’t come for him. Why did they come?

Something cold grips at Dean’s chest and his breath is coming faster. He’s not even sure why he’s panicking, but something propels him out of the car and towards the elevator.

There’s a pair of legs resting on the floor of the corridor that leads to the laundry room, like someone’s slumped against the wall. They’re a woman’s legs, wrapped in dark denim and high-heeled black boots.

Dean’s running now, and it takes him less than ten strides to get there.

The collar of Meg’s white blouse is soaked with red from an ugly wound at her temple, and her lip is split. Her arms are wound around her middle, and she’s breathing hard through her nose. Even in the dim, flickering light of the corridor, Dean can tell she’s white as a sheet.

Less than ten feet down the corridor is Jimmy. He’s sitting on the floor, legs drawn up to his chest and arms curled around them, making himself as small as possible.

Dean glances at Meg again, but she doesn’t seem like she’s about to die. He leaves her where she is and crouches down next to Jimmy. “Hey, buddy. You alright?”

Jimmy doesn’t answer, and there’s no obvious sign of injury on him, so Dean picks him up gently, settling him against his chest. The feeling of the small, warm body against his stirs the memory of a warm afternoon spent eating ice cream, of street lights streaking across Cas’ dark jaw, shining on Jimmy’s tousled hair in Baby’s front seat.

It’s hard to square that memory with his current reality: Jimmy, awake and afraid, and Meg, eyes sparking with anger and humiliation, blonde hair matted with red.

“Can you walk?”

The look she gives him is pure dislike and defiance. “Not gonna let you carry me, if that’s what you had in mind.” Flinching, Meg slides up the wall, supporting herself with one hand against the faded yellow flowers of the wallpaper. As soon as she’s up, she wraps both arms around her middle again.

“If you got a broken rib, we’d better head to the ER,” Dean says over his shoulder as he presses the elevator call button.

“Nothing’s broken. I’m fine,” Meg grunts and shuffles into the metal box behind him.

They ride in silence. As soon as they get to Cas’ apartment, Meg disappears into the bathroom. Dean settles Jimmy on the couch with a glass of water and turns on the TV before he follows her.

At the threshold of the bathroom, he stops short. Meg is in front of the mirror, dabbing at her split lip with a wet towel. One side of her face is starting to swell, purple spreading across one cheekbone. She’s taken off her blouse, leaving her in a black tank top. The top does nothing to hide the textured snake winding up her arm and licking at her neck with a forked tongue.

“You’re one of them,” Dean says, flatly. “Nick’s people.”

Meg’s head swivels to face him, and she winces. “How the hell…?” She exhales heavily and turns back to the mirror. “You know what? I don’t care. I’m not, actually. Not anymore.”

“But you _were,_ before you got sent away,” Dean says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

“No,” Meg says. She sounds tired. “But some of his people were inside with me. Got chatted up by this chick named Ruby. She said she worked for a guy called Nick Lucio, and they were recruiting. She promised if I joined up, they’d keep me safe while I was inside, and they’d send work my way after. I was angry and I had no one looking out for me, so it sounded good to me.” Meg turns away from the mirror to glower at Dean. When he doesn’t react, her face crumples into something less angry and a lot more tired. “The longer I was inside though, the more I realized I didn’t wanna get back into the life. I wanted…” She blows a lock of hair away from her face. “It sounds so stupid, but I wanted another chance at being a family. With Cas and Jimmy.”

“I get that,” Dean says quietly.

Meg sinks gingerly onto the toilet seat next to the sink and locks eyes with him. “You probably think they could do a lot better than some ex-con screw-up."

She’s not completely wrong, but that’s not what Dean says. “You’re Jimmy’s mom. There’s nothing better than that.” Despite his misgivings about Meg, Dean does mean it. The memory of losing his own mother, more than a decade ago now, is still an ever-present ache in his chest.

Meg shakes her head, looking down at the towel in her lap. “You’re wrong. Cas and Jimmy _are_ better off without me. Today proved that.”

“What d’you mean?” Dean moves away from the doorframe, perching on the edge of the bathtub so they can talk face to face.

Meg picks at a speck of blood on the off-white towel. “They won’t let me go without paying for the protection they provided while I was inside. At first it was two thousand, then it was eight. Tomorrow, it might be twenty. I asked for more time to pay, and that’s when I got the visit from Nick’s guys.”

“How’re you gonna pay them back?” Dean asks sharply. “You don’t have a job.” They’re reaching a tentative truce here, but if Meg is about to tell him she’s planning to take Cas’ wages, Dean will be seriously tempted to break his rule against punching a woman.

“You think I don’t know that?” Meg’s voice is sharp, defensive. “They said I could do a job for _them_. One last job.”

“What kind of job?”

Meg’s fingers clench around the towel. “Rob a pawn shop in the Valley.”

“And if you don’t?” Dean asks, hands balling into fists atop his thighs. 

Meg looks away, and for a few seconds, she doesn’t answer. When she turns back to face Dean, exhaustion is carved into every line of her face. “If I don’t, they come after Cas and Jimmy.”

“Fuck.” Dean leaps off the tub and storms out of the bathroom, black panic rising up his throat and choking him. 

His first instinct is to find Cas and Jimmy, make sure they’re safe. Cas is at work and Jimmy’s right there, so Dean sinks down onto the couch next to him. Jimmy has barely moved since Dean put him down; he’s still curled up and staring, unseeing, at the TV.

“How’s it going, buddy?” Dean studies the side of Jimmy’s face, but gets no response. Jimmy’s fingers are fidgeting, playing with a small, glinting object in his lap. “What have you got there?”

Wordlessly, Jimmy opens his palm to reveal a bullet.

Dean swallows heavily. “One of those guys give you that?”

“Mhm,” Jimmy says quietly. “They told me not to lose it.”

Jimmy finally slants his eyes at Dean. He hasn’t been crying, but there’s something uncertain and confused about his face that claws at Dean’s chest. Dean hitches on a reassuring smile and prays it looks convincing. “You want me to keep that for you?”

Jimmy nods and hands over the bullet. Dean pockets it. “I’ll be right back, OK, buddy?”

Without so much as a nod, Jimmy turns his attention back to the TV.

Dean walks back into the bathroom, where Meg is still sitting on the toilet seat, staring into space. He waits until she’s noticed him, then takes a deep breath. Once he says the words, there’s no going back.

“I’ll help you.”

*** 

That night, when Dean hears a familiar, gravelly voice raised in anger next door, he has no doubt his turn is coming next.

Sure enough, two minutes later, a door slams in the corridor outside, followed by approaching footsteps and an insistent pounding of knuckles on wood.

Dean considers not answering. But this is not a conversation he’s really going to get out of, and waiting won’t make it any easier.

He opens the door.

Cas is standing on the other side, white-faced and shaking with fury. 

Instinctively, Dean takes a couple of steps back. Cas follows immediately, slamming the door shut behind him. Dean can’t help but remember the last time Cas walked in like this, but he has a feeling it won’t go nearly as well, tonight.

“When were you going to tell me?” Cas’ voice is low, but crackling with hurt and rage.

“Soon. I… I was working on figuring out how.” The words sound weak even to Dean’s own ears. “I didn’t think you’d take it well.”

Cas has both hands perched on his hips as he looks down at his scuffed sneakers, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Wasn’t wrong, was I?” The attempt at a joke is weak, and Dean can’t even muster up the grin to go with it.

Cas’ eyes narrow into twin slivers of blue ice. “I come home,” Cas hisses, “to find my son traumatized and my ex-girlfriend beaten to a bloody pulp because apparently she owes money to some lowlife who’s going to kill us if she doesn’t rob a pawn shop for him.” Cas straightens and takes a step forward, almost nose to nose with Dean now. “Am I getting it so far?”

Dean swallows heavily, but nods.

“And if that wasn’t enough, she tells me _you’re_ going to help her rob the store. Because that is, apparently, a thing you do.”

Every word is thick with sarcasm, and Dean knows he should just shut up, but he at least has to set the record straight here. “OK, no. I don’t rob anything. All I do is drive.”

Cas turns in a half-circle, arms outstretched in supplication to an invisible audience. “Yeah, sure. Of course,” he says, his voice turning more brittle the louder it gets. “You help the criminals get away. I can see how that’s so much better.”

“It is, actually,” Dean says, his own voice rising to match Cas’. “I don’t carry a gun, ever. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

When Cas speaks again, his voice is completely devoid of emotion; somehow, it’s worse than his anger from a few seconds ago. “What about the people you drive? Do _they_ hurt people?”

Dean gnaws at his bottom lip. This conversation is running off the rails, and he has no idea how to make it stop. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Then you’re no better than Meg.” The words come out flat and final, and panic starts to claw at Dean’s insides.

He’s losing Cas.

“No, listen,” Dean hates the pleading note in his voice, but maybe pleading is the only way to make Cas understand. “I’m doing this to help. To keep you and Jimmy safe.”

Cas huffs. “Yeah. You’re a real hero.” Jaw working, Cas looks off to the side. When he turns back to Dean, he’s squared his shoulders and stiffened his spine. “I want to make one thing extremely clear. What happens to me and Jimmy is not your concern anymore.” His voice still has that distant, almost robotic quality to it. “You and Meg do whatever you want. But don’t contact me or my son again.”

Dean wants to fall to his knees and beg Cas to stay, to give him a chance to fix this. 

But none of those things happen.

Instead, Cas turns and walks out the door.

**END PART I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY, I PROMISE EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE. *flails at Angst with a Happy Ending tag*
> 
> Next week: Dean and Meg become reluctant partners in crime. It doesn't take long for things to go sideways. Cas receives some shocking news.
> 
> SPOILERS BELOW  
> *  
> *  
> *  
> Dean finds Meg after she has been beaten by two of Nick's "employees." (The violence itself isn't shown or described.) The beating was witnessed by Jimmy. Meg is injured, but not gravely so. Dean takes Meg and Jimmy to safety, but it's clear from Jimmy's reactions that he's unsettled/traumatized by what he's seen.


	4. A Real Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that this chapter ends on a cliffhanger. But there's another car chase, so we've got that going for us.

**PART II**

Bobby scowls at Dean from behind his desk, bushy brows drawn into an angry V. 

“Run that by me one more time, boy. Because it sure as hell sounded to me like you were sayin’ you’re gonna work a job for Nick frickin’ Lucio.” Dean flinches at the sharpness in Bobby’s tone. For all that he’s a grumpy bastard, Bobby rarely yells at him. “But that can’t possibly be it, because I could swear you and me were shakin’ hands with Crowley on an exclusive deal less than a week ago.”

Dean chews at his lip. “I don’t have a choice, Bobby.”

“Oh, right. I forgot,” Bobby says, every word dripping with sarcasm. “This is all for the greater good. This is you bein’ a goddamn hero.”

Something sharp and hot twists in Dean’s stomach. That’s what Cas called him, too — “a real hero” — and the unfairness of it stings like a physical wound. He’s got nothing but awful choices here. All he’s trying to do is pick the least awful one.

“I can’t let Nick hurt Jimmy, or Cas.” The sound of their names feels like glass shards in his mouth. “Meg’s been out of the game for years. Last time she did something like this, she landed herself in prison. I can keep that from happening again. I can make sure Nick gets his money and leaves them the fuck alone.”

Bobby slams his fist on the desk, making Dean jump. “You think Lucio’s the kind of guy who’ll just let her go? Then you ain’t got an ounce of sense, boy. No matter how much money you and her make for him, he’ll _always_ ask for more.”

Dean looks down at the scuffed tops of his work boots, unable to meet Bobby’s eye. He tried hard to find a way around this next part, but there just isn’t one. “I just have to offer him something he wants more than money, that’s all.” 

Bobby pushes back from his desk, huffing a deep breath through his nose. “You goddamn idjit.”

“I’m not wrong, am I?” Dean’s voice sounds small to his own ears. His anger is running through his fingers, replaced by exhaustion, and a hopelessness that sits on his chest like some nightmare creature. “He came here to try to recruit me ‘cause I’m valuable to Crowley. I make sure he gets the take from every job and doesn’t have to bail his guys out of jail, or defend them against charges.”

Bobby stares at him, face stiff with disapproval. “Did it ever occur to you to run this whole thing _by_ Crowley? You’re damn right you’re valuable to him. Which is why he offered you that sweet deal — to keep you from runnin’ off and joinin’ up with Lucio. And by the way, if you do this, you know that’s gone, right? Your chance to put back some savings and then get out of this damn life, find something better. You’re throwin’ all that away, and for what? A pretty face?”

Dean shakes his head at the floor. He can’t explain to _himself_ what Cas means to him. How can he explain it to Bobby? “Cas is a good person and he’s got a great kid,” he says finally, because that much, at least, will always be true. “They don’t deserve to die because a bunch of low-lives are having a pissing contest.” He takes a deep breath. “Besides, last time I talked to Crowley, he made it pretty damn clear I was only useful to him as long as I wasn’t causing trouble. He could care less about Cas or Jimmy or me. Or anyone whose name isn’t Crowley.”

“Holy shit,” Bobby mumbles, leaning forward to try to catch Dean’s eye. “You’re in love with blue-eyes.”

Dean’s lungs tighten, and it seems impossible to squeeze another breath into them. Yet, somehow, he manages. “It doesn’t matter. Even if I was — and I’m not saying I am — Cas made it pretty damn clear he’s done with me. But I can… I _have_ to do this one last thing for him and Jimmy.”

For a minute, Bobby doesn’t say anything. When he does speak, his voice is considerably calmer, almost melancholy. “What happens if Crowley finds out about this, boy? That ever occur to you?”

Dean sits up and shakes the tension from his shoulders, because this question, at least, he knows how to answer. “I’ve got a plan, Bobby. I’ll make damn sure that any job I work for Nick can’t be traced back to me.”

Bobby raises his cap, scratching wearily at the receding hairline underneath. “You’d better be right, boy.”

*** 

Castiel scrubs at the grease stain on the counter with fierce determination.

It’s been there for months, just behind the case of rotating hot dogs and sweating taquitos. But it’s out of the sight of customers, so even the supervisors haven’t complained too hard about it.

By now, the stretch of counter below the stain is probably discolored, but Castiel isn’t deterred. If he can just fix this one thing, everything will somehow turn out alright.

His head is foggy with exhaustion, and his limbs are weighted with it. Jimmy has been sleeping poorly, and consequently, so has Castiel. Each time he rises off the couch and drags his feet into his son’s room to murmur soothing words into his neck and brush sweaty hair off his forehead, his resolve hardens.

He did the right thing.

Castiel scrubs harder, trying to put into the motion all the conviction he wishes he felt.

He did the right thing showing Meg the door. She put her family in the crosshairs of dangerous, violent people. 

Castiel scrubs harder.

He also did the right thing telling Dean to get lost. He’d thought Dean could be good for him — and, more importantly, good for his son. He has a natural, easy way with Jimmy that even Castiel himself sometimes feels like he lacks.

But Dean lied to him. Dean associates with the same kinds of people Meg does. Jimmy is no safer in his care than he is in Meg’s.

Castiel scrubs harder.

It doesn’t matter. He’s fended for himself for years, and he will keep doing it for as long as it takes. Decades, if necessary.

Castiel looks down. He’s scrubbed straight through his flimsy cleaning rag, leaving a jagged, gaping hole in its middle. Through the hole, he catches a glimpse of the stain. 

It’s completely unchanged.

*** 

On his way to the meeting with Nick, Dean looks over his shoulder at least every thirty seconds.

There’s no reason to suspect Crowley has people tracking his movements, but he can’t afford to make mistakes. When Meg told him they’d be discussing the details of the job at the lake in MacArthur Park, Dean almost refused to go, until he considered the merits of the location. The lake is out in the open, sure, but it’s so open that no one could possibly hide while still staying in earshot of a conversation. At the same time, it’s a popular neighborhood spot. Dean could have been there for any of a dozen reasons, with no intention of meeting anyone — let alone Nick.

When Dean arrives, Meg is just approaching from another direction, but Nick’s waiting for them both, slouching against one of the concrete planters that sit at wide intervals along the shore. He’s picked one that puts the sun at his back.

“Well, hey there, kids,” Nick drawls. “Nice day for a walk.”

“Nick,” Dean says flatly. Meg’s only greeting for either of them is a curt nod.

Nick settles himself more comfortably against his planter and studies his thick, callused fingers. There’s no other place nearby to sit down, so Meg and Dean are forced to stand in front of him like naughty school children, shuffling their feet and blinking into the sun. Dean’s sunglasses are in his jacket pocket, but he won’t give Nick the satisfaction of putting them on.

“I hear you’ve changed your mind about working for me,” Nick says, cocking his head at Dean. “Wanna tell me some more about what I’m getting into here?”

Dean takes a deep breath, then launches into his usual speech. “You give me a time and place; I give you a five-minute window. Those five minutes, I’m yours. Whatever goes down, I’m yours. A minute on either side, you’re on your own.”

As soon as Dean stops talking, Nick chuckles. “I’m assuming that spiel is supposed to impress me?”

“It’s the same rules I give everyone I do a job for,” Dean says, shifting again in the hope that he’ll get the sun out of his eyes and have a better view of Nick’s backlit face. It doesn’t work. “It’s for my protection, but also for yours. Every additional minute I have to wait makes the getaway that much more likely to fail.”

Nick hums his acknowledgement. “Fair. But surely, if you and Meg here,” he jerks his chin at Meg, whose face is still swollen and discolored, “are such buddies, you’d bend the rules for _her_?”

“I can’t afford to,” Dean says, trying to look regretful.

The story they’re going with is that Meg and Dean are old friends, going back to before she was put away. She approached him with her predicament and he agreed to reconsider Nick’s offer in light of that information.

There had been no disagreement between him and Meg about keeping Cas and Jimmy out of the conversation as much as possible. Nick has enough leverage over them already — he doesn’t need to know that a threat to Cas and Jimmy’s safety is just as much motivation for Dean as it is for Meg.

“Alright. Well, it’s no skin off _my_ nose as long as I get the money.” Nick grins at them, teeth sharp and glinting in his shadowed face. “And make no mistake, I will be getting _all_ the money. As in, none for you…” He points a finger gun at Dean, then another at Meg. “And definitely none for you. Are we clear?”

Dean clamps down on a sigh of relief. That was easier than expected. He didn’t even have to make promises about other jobs.

“Of course, there’s one more thing you should know.” Nick turns to Dean again. “If you work for me, you _work_ _for me_.”

Fuck. So close.

“No more jobs for Crowley, and you do any job I tell you to do, for as long as I tell you.”

Dean bites his cheek to keep himself from cursing up a blue streak. “Or else?” he grits out.

“Or else, you get to watch as I kill your friend here. Maybe her pretty boyfriend and adorable tyke for good measure.” Nick clicks his tongue cheerfully. “Won’t get my money that way, but what can I say? Money can’t buy happiness.”

The rest of the conversation more or less passes Dean by, his vision clouded with a red haze that’s part righteous anger and part naked panic. On top of everything else, he now has to figure out how to keep working for Crowley on the sly.

Before Nick lets them leave, he makes Dean shake on their agreement like they’re ten-year-olds swearing a best-friends-forever oath. Meg gets barely a glance.

Dean has very little to say to Meg either, other than to get the address where she wants to be picked up in two days, when the job is supposed to go down. It’s the Wilshire Serrano Motel — not a prime address, and definitely not Cas’ apartment.

“Cas kick you out?” Dean asks, ignoring the twist in his gut he still feels every time that name passes his lips.

“None of your damn business,” Meg growls, which is as good as a ‘yes.’

Dean nods and walks away, pulling out his phone as he goes.

Crowley has eyes in all kinds of places, so if Dean’s going to do this job, he’ll have to make damn sure he doesn’t do it in a car that can be traced back to his and Bobby’s shop.

That’s where Benny comes in. Benny was the stunt coordinator on a movie Dean worked on a couple of years back. Much like Bobby, he has an auto shop on the side, specializing in custom modifications. (Largely for illegal street races, though that part is, obviously, not widely known.)

Benny picks up on the third ring. “Been a while, brother.”

“Yeah, and you’re about to rip me a new one, ‘cause I’m calling to ask a favor.”

The line crackles with a breathy chuckle. “You better make it worth my while then.”

Dean winces. There goes a good bit of his take on the bank job, most likely. “You know I will.” He pauses, waiting for Benny to argue, but he doesn’t. “I need a car.”

Another chuckle, darkly amused. “OK. Called the right place.”

“No compromised plates. No flashy paint jobs. Something nice and anonymous.”

“Huh. Maybe you _have_ called the wrong place.”

Dean rubs at his eyes until he sees stars. “I know you can do it. Just name your price.”

Benny hums his approval. “ _Now_ you’re speakin’ my language.”

*** 

Benny rustled up a 2016 Toyota Camry whose color lives somewhere in the no-man’s-land between brown and grey. Dean had to pay him extra to turbocharge the tame 2.5-liter V6 engine, but it was worth it. Good acceleration can make the difference between a successful getaway and an orange jumpsuit.

Two days after the meeting with Nick, Dean pulls into the parking lot of the Wilshire Serrano. As soon as he comes to a stop, the curtain in one of the ground-floor rooms falls closed and Meg walks out to meet him. She’s dressed in a dark blouse that hides her tattoo, along with black jeans and high-heeled boots. Her usually wavy hair is pulled back into a severe bun, presumably so she can hide it under a mask. In one hand, she’s carrying a plain black duffle bag.

Dean texted ahead of time to let her know what kind of car he’d be arriving in, so she slides right in, only to freeze when she catches sight of his face.

“Holy shit,” she snorts. “Looking handsome, Dean-o.”

Dean pulls a face at her, but the effect is somewhat lost because his head is encased in his bald latex stunt mask. A few days ago, he spotted it in the back of his trunk, and an idea came to him. The car can’t be traced to him or Bobby, but he’s still paranoid about being spotted at the wheel. The mask is just another layer of insurance.

“Shut up,” Dean growls. “You always mock people who help you out?”

Meg looks him up and down for a few seconds; then, one corner of her mouth curves up in a wry smile. “Pretty much.”

Dean grunts, reluctantly amused, and they pull out of the parking lot, heading north.

Their destination is A-1 Pawn, just off the Sierra Highway, on the outskirts of Santa Clarita. Which means that before they’ve even done the job, Dean’s already broken two of his hard-and-fast rules: never give the clients a ride to the job, and never work a job outside the city. LA, with its maze of one hundred thousand streets, is a getaway driver’s dream. There’s always another corner to turn, another alley to duck into, another place to hide.

Out here, if things go south, speed will be their only saving grace.

A-1 Pawn is an unremarkable, low-slung place with bars over the windows and a peeling, greyish paint job. Flickering neon signs promise “easy cash” and “fast loans.” A six-by-ten-foot American flag is painted along the side of the building facing the parking lot, the red stripes clashing violently with messy orange letters that spell out “God Bless America” across the bottom.

Dean scans the lot. Three rows, with about a dozen spaces each. There are only two other cars, so the number of customers in the store should be manageable. In any case, they can’t afford to wait until everyone leaves.

When Dean looks over at Meg, she’s studying the squat and sturdy Taurus G2C 9mm in her lap. A black ski mask is sitting bunched up on top of her head, like the world’s least flattering crown.

“You ready?” Dean asks. He has no idea what it takes to psych yourself up to do something like this, but whatever it is, they’re running out of time for it.

Finally, Meg nods.

“OK.” Dean pulls out his phone and shows Meg the timer app as he presses the “start” button. “See you in five minutes.”

“See you in four,” Meg answers as she pulls the mask over her face.

In one smooth motion, she’s out of the car, grabbing the duffle from the footwell, and tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans.

Dean watches her walk away across the parking lot. She pulls at the store’s front door one-handed, then props it open with her hip as she turns the small, dangling sign from “open” to “closed.” She steps inside.

Dean fiddles with the police scanner, searching for the local channel. When he’s got it, he sits back and watches the door. Idly, he wonders whether he’d actually leave if the five minutes ran out on Meg. On the whole, he doesn’t think so. He’ll never be best friends with her, but she’s still Jimmy’s mom. If he can keep her from screwing this up, he has to try.

So he watches, and he waits.

Three minutes have passed when a black Mustang pulls up two spaces down from him. The windows are tinted. Dean watches the car, his pulse beating faster as the Mustang’s engine keeps rumbling. 

No one gets out.

Something is wrong.

“C’mon, Meg. Gotta go,” he mumbles as he flexes his hand, feeling the pull of the leather driving glove against his skin. He thought he’d gotten used to wearing the latex mask, but it suddenly feels much too warm on his face. His quickening breath mists hot against the edges of the small opening left for his mouth, and the even smaller ones for his nostrils. A thin trickle of sweat runs down the back of his neck.

At four minutes thirty, Meg emerges. She’s carrying the duffle, and it looks heavier now. She hasn’t bothered to tuck away the gun, but it’s pointed at the ground as she takes small, speedy steps across the parking lot, back towards the Camry.

Dean pushes the passenger door open for her, and Meg tosses the duffle inside. She ducks to slide into the car, just as a voice rings out behind her. “Hey, lady!” 

Meg straightens up and turns, her gun arm rising instinctively. It’s barely halfway up when a deafening crack rings out and Meg crumples to the ground. 

A haze of red splatters one side of the Camry’s windshield. 

Lightning-quick, Dean darts out and pulls the door closed. As he leans forward, he catches a glimpse of Meg, a pool of blood spreading around her, brown eyes staring unseeing at the sky. His heartbeat is a frantic tattoo in his ears, and he can’t seem to pull in enough air through the mask.

He starts the engine. By the time he buckles himself in, he’s already flooring the gas pedal, executing a hairpin turn around a lamppost to make it to the exit of the lot as fast as possible.

As soon as he’s turned right onto the highway, the roar of the Mustang sounds behind him. It’s following. This is bad. Even with a turbocharger, the Camry is no match for a muscle car. Not on an open road and with no obstacles between them. 

Dean needs to play this smart. The Sierra Highway has two lanes going each way at this point, and Dean changes lanes like a pinball, the Mustang always visible in his rear-view mirror, three car-lengths behind.

His brain is screaming at him, trying to let panic take over, but he pushes back hard. This is not the time.

The highway is climbing up into the hills now, the steep grade working against the weaker engine of the Camry. The Mustang has closed in, leaving no more than a few inches between their bumpers. They’re going fast enough that the cars behind them have fallen far back.

As Dean accelerates past sixty, the highway narrows to one lane going each way, nothing but a double yellow line dividing the two. To Dean’s right, there’s a thin gravel shoulder, and next to it, the rising side of a cliff.

The road curves to the left just ahead, and Dean has an excellent view of a tractor trailer traveling downhill. For now, there’s no other cars behind it.

The plan forming in his head isn’t a good one, and it’s certainly not safe, but it’s the best he’s got.

As soon as the tractor trailer has rounded the bend and is heading straight towards Dean, he starts to veer across the double yellow, into the truck’s lane.

The deep, jarring sound of the truck’s horn blares in Dean’s ear, but he stays the course. Just as he hoped, the truck starts to drift now, heading onto the left side of the road to avoid him.

At the count of three, Dean’s past the truck and pulling back into his own lane.

Behind him, he hears the squeal and huff of overtaxed air brakes as the truck swerves to avoid the Mustang. The Mustang’s tires screech, the driver losing control as he tries and fails to come to a full stop. The car skids onto the gravel shoulder, then up the cliff side, two wheels riding up at an impossible angle.

In the blink of an eye, the Mustang overbalances and tips over onto its roof. Residual momentum keeps it sliding along another few feet as Dean rounds the next bend of the road, out of sight.

Breathing hard, he pulls off the latex mask and wipes at the sweat on his forehead.

*** 

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Masters?”

The question registers dimly at the periphery of Castiel’s consciousness, barely more than a buzzing in his ear.

“Can you answer the question?”

Castiel swallows and blinks, waiting for his brain to regain the ability to hold a conversation.

“Sir?”

He blinks once more, and his eyes fall onto the uniformed woman sitting across the booth from him. She’s leaning toward him, brows drawn together, brown eyes fixing him with an impatient look.

Castiel thinks she might have introduced herself when she first came into the diner looking for him, but he can’t be sure. When she said Meg had been found shot to death in a parking lot outside Santa Clarita, the world started to tilt on its axis, and it has yet to realign.

On the table in front of him, his phone buzzes with an incoming text. Cas glances down. The text is short, all of it visible even with the screen locked:

_About to call you from a different number._

It’s from Dean.

Two seconds later, an unknown set of digits lights up the display.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” Castiel croaks. He rises from his seat, heading for the men’s room as fast as he can, even as the cop calls after him to come back.

He locks the bathroom door behind him and slides his thumb across the battered screen to accept the call.

“Cas?” There’s an edge of panic in Dean’s voice; his breath is coming heavy, as though he’s been running.

“Dean.” Castiel pushes down the flutter behind his ribcage that is, even now, his instinctive reaction to the sound of Dean’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Cas, but…” Silence for a beat or two, then Dean’s voice again, sounding even shakier than before. “It’s Meg, Cas. She…”

“The police told me,” Castiel interrupts, fighting to speak past the roiling mix of fear and grief that has him by the throat. “Are you safe?”

“Yeah, Cas, but it’s better if I don’t tell you where I am, just until I can figure out what the hell happened.” Another moment of silence. “Cas, I’m so…”

“Don’t. I can’t… talk about this now.” He breathes deep — in, out, in, out — trying to regain control so he can ask the most important question. “Are Jimmy and I safe?”

A shaky exhale sounds through the line. “Yeah, I… I’m pretty sure. If they’re coming after anyone, it’ll be me. You guys were leverage to get Meg to play ball. Nick doesn’t know…”

Dean breaks off, the heavy weight of unspoken words tangible even across the distance.

_Nick doesn’t know what we were to each other. What we could have been._

“Good,” Castiel says, as someone outside starts to bang on the door. The sound of the cop’s voice comes from the other side.

“Sir? Sir! I need you to step outside now.”

Castiel ends the call and wipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I’m coming.”

*** 

When the call disconnects, Dean’s eyes refocus on the open duffel that sits on the mildew-stained bedspread next to him. He hasn’t counted the mess of bills inside, but at a guess, the amount is in the tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds. Either way, it’s probably worth more than the entire motel where Dean finds himself: a seedy by-the-hour place on the edge of the city.

Right about now, Nick will be finding out that Meg is dead, and that both Dean and the money got away. It looks bad in hindsight, the fact that Dean didn’t ask for a way to contact Nick directly in case things went sideways. He figured he had Meg for that, and the less contact he had with Nick personally, the less chance there was of Crowley finding him out. Now Meg is gone, and Dean wants nothing more than to set the record straight, hand over the money and try to walk away from this. But how?

He flinches when one of his burners rings in his jacket pocket. It’s an unknown number.

“Who is this?”

A deep, monotone voice sounds over the line. “Nick wants to know if you’ve got the money.”

Relief sweeps through Dean on a wave so powerful, it almost knocks him off his feet. “Yeah, I’ve got it. Listen, I don’t want it. If you just tell me a time and a place, I’ll—”

The call disconnects.

What the fuck?

Dean tries to jumpstart his brain, willing the pieces to slot together. The call came in on a burner. Bobby has all those numbers, and so does…

“Shit. Shit shit shit.” Dean leaps off the bed, pacing frantically as the passing headlights of cars pierce through the room at intervals, the flimsy curtains no match for them. 

How could he have been so stupid? No one associated with Nick has access to those numbers. _Crowley’s_ the one who supplies his burners. 

If that was one of Crowley’s guys on the phone, he wouldn’t bother to arrange a handover of the money. He would’ve just been calling to confirm that Dean worked a job for Nick in the first place.

But how could Crowley have known? Dean was so careful about the car, and he was wearing the mask, just in case.

He thinks back to that first time Nick showed up at Bobby’s garage. He knew Dean worked getaways, and he also knew Dean worked for Bobby. The only people who have both those pieces of information are people who work for _Crowley_.

None of it fits.

Dean finally stops pacing when he starts to get dizzy. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, but he doesn’t have time for that now. He needs to think.

What’s his next step?

His thoughts turn to Cas and Jimmy. Nick doesn’t know that they’re more than neighbors to Dean, and he’s pretty sure Crowley doesn’t either.

Last time Crowley was trying to get under his skin, he threatened…

Bobby.

Dean moves so fast, his grip on his phone slips three times before he manages to unlock the screen. Fingers shaking, he pulls up Bobby’s cell number and dials.

The line rings once, twice, three times. After six rings, the machine picks up, and a gruff voice sounds in Dean’s ear.

_This is Bobby. You know what to do._

“Hey, Bobby. This is urgent. Call me as soon as you get this. Use my private cell, not the burners.”

Dean hangs up and dials again: this time, the garage. It’s only five-thirty, so Bobby could easily still be at work. This time, the machine picks up after five rings.

_You’ve reached Singer’s Custom Kings. Please leave a detailed message after the tone, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can._

That one is in Dean’s voice. Bobby made him record it because it was “too damn polite for an old coot like me.”

Dean leaves another message. He tries Bobby’s cell two more times, then the garage again. The result is always the same.

Finally, he zips up the duffle with the money inside and grabs the straps so tightly, his fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his palm. He’s going to track Bobby down, if he has to drive all over town to do it.

Just as he’s walking out the door, the burner buzzes in his pocket. Dean pulls it out and looks at the display, breath catching in his throat.

He recognizes that number.

“Crowley,” he croaks.

“You can tell your new boss the hit on Ms. Masters today was just my opening salvo,” a voice hisses in Dean’s ear. “I’ll have every last one of his people shot if he doesn’t get out of my territory. And as for you — what did I say would happen if you stopped being a good boy?”

Dean doesn’t stick around to listen to anything else. 

He tosses the burner onto the carpet and stomps on it until the pieces are scattered to the far corner of the room. He doesn’t bother to pick them up. Instead, he sprints out to the car, tosses the duffle into the trunk and floors it.

Earlier that day, he ditched the blood-spattered Camry in an empty lot by the side of the highway, then called a cab to take him into town, where he had his Baby stashed in a municipal parking lot. The throaty purr of her engine as he rides back downtown makes him feel marginally calmer.

By some miracle, Dean doesn’t get pulled over, even when he does close to eighty down I-5. It takes him less than twenty minutes to reach the familiar section of Silver Lake Boulevard.

In the distance, smoky red haze and blue lights illuminate the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies.
> 
> RIP, Meg. Did anyone see it coming?
> 
> Next week: We learn what happened to Bobby. Dean makes a new friend, and finds comfort from an unexpected source.


	5. They Broke His Pelvis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation with my beta about this chapter's title went approximately as follows. 
> 
> Beta: I... don't know about this for a chapter title.  
> Me: But no, listen, I'm being *so* clever. Each of the chapter titles is the name of a song from the "Drive" movie soundtrack. And this one just fits.  
> Beta: *That* is the name of a song from the soundtrack? ... I give up.
> 
> Thank you, [tiamatv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv), for putting up with my nonsense.

“Are you sad about Mom?” Castiel asks. 

He runs his fingers through his son’s hair as he speaks, tugging on it gently until the dark, messy strands lie feathered across his lap. Jimmy’s hair is the exact color of his own. The narrow, sharply defined jaw and blue eyes are his too, but Jimmy’s occasional flashes of brash confidence are all Meg.

Jimmy tears his eyes away from the cartoon on TV. He’s curled up on his side, but contorts himself until his face is pointed straight up. “What, Dad?”

Castiel clears his throat and picks up the remote on the couch next to him, turning off the TV. “I asked if you were sad about Mom.”

Jimmy frowns at the darkened screen for a moment, then, with a weary sigh, turns all the way onto his back and screws up his face, thoughtful. “I guess,” he says, finally. “I didn’t know her very well. But she was nice to me.” He blinks a few times. “Are _you_ sad?”

Castiel nods, trying to focus on the soothing motion of petting his son’s hair instead of the gaping hole in his chest. “Yes. I knew her a long time. We were very good friends once.”

Jimmy nuzzles into Castiel’s belly, eliciting a small, involuntary chuckle. Looking pleased with himself, Jimmy says, “You didn’t seem like good friends when she was staying here. You seemed mad at her a lot.”

“I was,” Castiel agrees. “Meg made some big mistakes, and I had a hard time forgiving her for them.”

Jimmy considers this while he takes hold of the zipper of Castiel’s hoodie, idly pulling it up and down a few inches. “Ashley at school says when your family makes mistakes, you’re _supposed_ to forgive them. That’s how family works.”

“That’s pretty smart,” Castiel says quietly. “But it’s not always that easy. Especially when they make a mistake that could get someone else in your family hurt.”

Jimmy shrugs and stretches his legs, letting his feet fall onto the arm of the couch with a _thunk_. “I think you still gotta try.”

Castiel digs in the pocket of his hoodie for his phone, nudging Jimmy with his forearm until he giggles and rolls away. “It’s late, Jimmy. We should be getting you ready for bed.”

Jimmy sighs, put-upon, and makes no move to get up. “Are you gonna forgive Dean?”

Castiel’s heart skips a beat. “What?” 

“You’re mad at him, too, right?” Jimmy squints up at Castiel’s face, frowning.

“How do you know that?”

Jimmy shrugs. “I heard you yelling at him through the wall. And he doesn’t come around anymore.”

Castiel pulls at his face with the palm of his hand. Once again, he’s father of the year. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“’s OK,” Jimmy mumbles. “Are you, though?”

“Am I going to forgive him?”

Jimmy nods emphatically.

Castiel considers a non-committal answer, or a brush-off. But somehow, despite all the less-than-smart decisions he’s made in his life, he’s ended up with a son too smart to let these things slide.

“I think I want to,” he says finally. “At least, I’m willing to listen to what he has to say.”

Jimmy looks up at Castiel, considering, then gives a sharp nod of approval. “Good. I like him.”

***

Foreboding heavy in his stomach, Dean inches the Impala down Silver Lake Boulevard. Even from a distance, he can see that Singer’s Custom Kings is ablaze, flames infecting the darkness above with angry red.

A perimeter has been set up at a distance of about two hundred feet and the road is closed to traffic in both directions, barricades manned by LAPD officers. Dean’s nerves ratchet up at the sight, but there’s no way he can leave. Not until he knows.

As soon as his Baby comes to a stop at the side of the road, Dean jumps out and approaches the nearest uniform; a generic, broad-shouldered cop type with a shaved head. The guy immediately holds up a hand, palm out, chest inflated with his own importance. “Sir, I need you to step back.”

Dean stops short of the palm, but just barely. “I work here. What’s going on?”

“I’m not authorized to tell you that,” the cop growls.

Dean balls his hands into fists, trying to control the urge to punch an officer of the law. “Dude, that’s literally my livelihood going up in flames, and the closest thing I have to a dad anymore might be inside. Could you just tell me what the hell is going on?!”

The official façade cracks a little, and the guy’s lips pull into a sympathetic grimace. “Sorry, man. I’ll check in with my supervisor, see if someone can come over and talk to you.”

The cop turns away to mutter into his walkie-talkie and Dean moves just a little closer, craning his neck.

With a giant whoosh, something explodes inside the garage and a fireball shoots up into the night sky. The ominous sound of creaking metal fills the air, and just like that, the roof caves in.

A raw sound tears out of Dean’s throat, swallowed immediately by the cacophony of roaring flame and people shouting at each other around the perimeter. He flinches when a hand closes around his arm, and spins around.

The hand belongs to a woman in a pantsuit, late forties at a guess, with close-cropped dark hair. “Detective Jody Mills, LAPD. How can I help you?” She’s standing on the other side of the barricade from Dean, and she has that cop look, but there’s something warm about her eyes. In his current distress, Dean almost feels like a child again, inexpressibly relieved to see a grown-up who radiates reassurance and competence. 

Dean barely takes in the badge she’s holding up. “What’s going on? Is Bobby… I mean, is Mr. Singer inside?”

Mills winces. “You know Mr. Singer.”

Dean almost stomps his foot in frustration. “For fuck’s sake. Yes, I know him! I work here. Is he OK?”

“Well… one of our officers found him unconscious and beaten in the salvage yard when we were setting up the perimeter. So yeah, he’s alive. At least, he _was_ when they loaded him into the ambulance,” Mills says, and Dean almost sways on his feet with relief. Mills frowns. “Are you Dean Winchester?”

Instantly, the alarm bells in Dean’s brain kick back into gear. How does she know his name? And why does it matter? Should he lie? Or run?

No, that’s no good. He’s surrounded by uniforms, and he’s got about ten different IDs in his wallet that say he is, in fact, Dean Winchester. So he nods.

“Mr. Singer put you down as next of kin. He’s been taken to Good Samaritan. If you head over there, they should let you see him and give you an update on his condition.” Mills digs in the pocket of her suit jacket and comes up with a small business card, which she hands over. “My cell is on there. After you check on Mr. Singer, I strongly suggest you give me a call. I’ve got something to discuss with you.”

Presumably spotting the flash of panic on Dean’s face, she adds, “And before you even think of skipping town, you should know that I’ve got your home address, your car’s license and registration, your Social Security number, and a lot more bits and pieces that’ll make you extremely easy to find.”

Dean stares down at the card-stock square in his hand, head swimming as he walks away.

*** 

Dean isn’t sure how long it takes him to get to Good Samaritan. Time has become meaningless; he floats along, no longer trying to plan for, or even much caring, what happens next.

The important things are these: Cas is alive. Jimmy is alive. Bobby is alive, for now. That’s what Dean’s going to remember and try to work with. 

The smell of disinfectant and despair trails after him as he follows the signs to the ICU. The nurse at reception directs him to the nearest waiting room, where she says someone will be with him shortly. It becomes clear pretty damn quickly that Dean’s definition of “shortly” is very different from hers.

He paces the waiting room, fitted with large windows and painted in soothing tones of green and orange, probably to make the place look less like a hospital and more like somewhere you wouldn’t mind spending a few hours. The linoleum floors and giant dispensers of hand sanitizer give the game away though.

After an hour has passed, or maybe ten minutes, Dean sits down and takes out his phone. He doesn’t realize whose number he’s dialed until a gruff, sleepy voice sounds in his ear.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean tries to respond, but something’s clogging his throat. 

“Dean?” Cas sounds much more awake this time, and more than a little concerned.

When the words finally come, they come all at once. “They got to Bobby, Cas. I’m at the hospital, and I’m waiting to hear what’s going on, but I don’t even know if he’s still alive, and the garage went up in flames, and Meg’s gone, and it’s my fault.” He takes a shaky breath. “It’s all my fault. I’m so, so sorry, Cas.”

For the longest five seconds of Dean’s life, there’s silence at the other end of the line. Then, “Which hospital are you at?”

“Good Samaritan,” Dean answers automatically, then stops short. “Why?”

“I can make it over there in half an hour. Will you be OK until then?”

“Yeah, but, Cas, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll see you then.”

And with that, the line goes dead.

Dean stares down at his phone in disbelief. Cas is coming. He’s so busy processing the news that the voice calling his name is close to shouting by the time he notices.

It belongs to a tall young woman in scrubs, blonde hair tied carefully back into a ponytail. She looks tired, but not like she’s about to tell him he can pick up Bobby’s personal effects, so that makes her the most beautiful thing Dean’s seen all day.

She smiles down at him. “We just operated on Mr. Singer. He’s out of surgery and he’s resting in a recovery suite.”

“How…” Dean clears his throat. “How is he?”

“Out of immediate danger,” she says, eyebrows pulled together in slight disapproval as she studies what is most likely Bobby’s file. “Whoever worked him over wasn’t pulling any punches. We think there was a baseball bat involved.” She grimaces, like she’s not sure she should be telling him more, but she does anyway. “They broke his pelvis. He’ll be able to walk again, but it’ll take several months of physical therapy. He’s got a long road ahead of him.”

Dean nods slowly, the information taking longer to process than it should. “But he’ll be fine?”

“Like I said, long road, and there’s always a chance of complications,” she says, one corner of her lips pulling up in a crooked smile. “But yes, we think he’s going to recover.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Dean covers his face with his hands, so he hears rather than sees the woman’s soft chuckle. “When can I see him?” he asks, looking back up.

“It’ll be a couple of hours. Maybe you should go home and…”

Dean shakes his head so hard, he feels a little dizzy with it. “I’ll wait.”

With another smile and a nod, she’s gone.

Bobby is alive. He’s going to be OK.

But that’s right now. What about next time? Crowley is still after Dean, and so is Nick, probably, by now. Neither of them will hesitate to go after Bobby again. And what if they somehow find out about his relationship with Cas, such as it is? 

The spiraling panic that’s been humming away at the back of Dean’s head ever since he watched Meg collapse onto the concrete pushes and tugs at him now, demanding attention. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the small object he’s been keeping there. Its smooth sides gleam coppery golden in the fluorescent overhead light. Jimmy’s bullet.

Nick is the kind of low-life who wouldn’t hesitate to make a little boy pay for the mistakes his mother made. And Crowley’s no better. As long as these two are out there, everyone he cares about is in danger.

With shaking fingers, Dean reaches into the pocket of his jacket and retrieves the business card. It’s a little bent from where he shoved it in none-too-gently in the first place, but the cell number, written in black pen along the back, is still legible.

He punches it into his phone and waits for the dial tone. This is probably a hell of a time of night to call someone, but he seems to be making a habit of it anyway.

“This is Mills.”

“It’s, um. It’s Dean Winchester.”

“Dean.” Mills’ voice is surprisingly warm. “It’s good to hear from you. How’s Mr. Singer?”

“He’ll be alright, but…” Dean takes a deep breath. He’s not going to cry while he’s on the phone with the damn LAPD. “But I’m worried for him, and for some other people I care about. I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I can help with that.” There’s no hesitation in Mills’ voice whatsoever, and that alone is such a relief, Dean almost does start to cry. “Come see me first thing tomorrow. I work out of Central Community Station, over on Sixth.” Probably sensing his moment of hesitation, she adds, “No one’s gonna arrest you. We’re just talking, for now.”

Dean wracks his brain for other choices, but he comes up empty. “OK.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Before Dean can say another word, the call cuts off.

He gets up and staggers out of the waiting room in search of coffee, his limbs sluggish with exhaustion and fear.

People in scrubs hurry past as he sways down the corridor, and there’s some kind of alarm blaring nearby.

When Dean eventually tracks down a coffee maker, it takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out the right combination of buttons to push to make midnight-black liquid spill into the insulated paper cup. He takes a sip and pulls a face at the temperature, but the taste could be worse. Clutching the cup like a lifeline, he sets off down the hall, realizing hazily that he can’t actually remember the way back to the waiting room.

After his third right turn, he looks around to orient himself, and his eyes fall on a rumpled figure by the elevator banks, dark-haired and blue-eyed, tugging a smaller and even more rumpled figure behind him.

Dean was wrong before. _There’s_ the most beautiful thing he’s seen all day.

*** 

Jimmy grumbles and whines when Castiel rouses him from his bed only a few hours after he first went to sleep. But Castiel asks too much of Missouri as it is, and tonight, of all nights, he doesn’t want Jimmy to wake up and find his father gone.

He bundles his son into the back of the Continental and drives across downtown to the hospital. For the moment, his grief over Meg’s death has receded to a dull ache in the background. To his own surprise, as soon as he picked up the phone and heard Dean’s voice, cracked with panic, the need to find him and hold him close became more important than any other consideration.

Castiel wants to think he struggled with the decision to forgo a good night’s sleep and, depending on how long he will need to stay at the hospital, the wages for two shifts the next day. But really, there was no struggle.

Yes, he was angry with Dean for keeping his after-hours job a secret. To some extent, he still is. But, alone with his thoughts as he drives through the LA night, Castiel considers that his heart seems to have a mind of its own when it comes to forgiving Dean. No matter what Dean has done in the past or how badly things ended for Meg today, Castiel’s heart tells him that Dean’s intentions were good. 

Just like those of his younger self, who so often looked the other way when Meg came home jumpy with adrenaline and clutching a wad of bills. _It’s fine,_ he’d tell himself, _as long as Jimmy has a full stomach and clothes on his back._

When Castiel pulls into the hospital parking lot, Jimmy has fallen back asleep, and it’s a struggle to wake him up and get him through the lobby to the elevators. He keeps slumping against Castiel deliberately, making it almost impossible for either of them to walk.

Somehow, they make it out of the elevator bank closest to the ICU, and Castiel tugs Jimmy along by the hand, trying to find the reception desk so they can ask where Dean might have gone.

As Castiel scans the room, his eyes fall on a tall, slightly bow-legged figure clutching a cup of coffee and staring right at him, lips parted. All the air escapes from his lungs in a single exhale, leaving him dizzy.

There are deep shadows under Dean’s bloodshot eyes, and every line of his face is sharpened by exhaustion. When his eyes meet Castiel’s across the frantic hospital corridor, one corner of his lips ticks up so briefly, Castiel almost thinks he might have imagined it.

Castiel allows himself the luxury of letting go of his son’s hand. He walks, then strides, then runs, until one arm wraps around Dean’s shoulder and the other around Dean’s waist, pulling him as close as humanly possible.

Dean slumps against him, his quick, ragged breaths huffing against the side of Castiel’s throat. After much too little time, Dean pulls back and rubs at his eyes, glancing down at Jimmy, who has wandered up to join them.

“Hey there, buddy. Bit late for you, isn’t it?” Dean’s smile is weak and watery, but it’s there.

Jimmy grunts and wanders off, Dean and Castiel following in his wake until they find the waiting room. With another disgruntled noise, Jimmy makes a beeline for a small couch near the back and curls up on it.

Castiel looks over to find Dean gazing at Jimmy, whose eyes are already closed. The lines of Dean’s face have softened a little, and the tight set of his shoulders has loosened.

There’s another couch at a right angle from where Jimmy has settled, and Castiel sinks into it, waiting for Dean to join him. Dean sits, letting his head slump against the wall, but leaving several respectable inches of space between them.

A minute or two passes before Dean speaks.

“Cas, I… I don’t even know where to start.” Dean fidgets, hands twisting and scratching at each other in his lap. “I should never have worked that job with Meg. I thought it was the right thing to do, but…” He huffs a mirthless laugh. “God, I was so damn stupid.”

Castiel turns so his side is pressed into the back of the couch and he’s facing Dean. “You were stupid for the right reasons.”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks. “Like it matters.”

Castiel smiles weakly. “Sometimes that’s all that matters.”

Dean looks up and seems to be trying to return Castiel’s smile, but other than a slight twitch of his jaw, he doesn’t succeed. “The guy I do these jobs for... Crowley. We’re supposed to have an exclusive arrangement. He’s in this, I don’t know, turf war with another guy named Nick. Nick is the one whose crowd Meg was part of.”

Dean rubs at one eye with the back of his hand. “I was so, so _careful_ about hiding that I was involved with Meg’s job. But somehow, Crowley knew. Some of his people were there, waiting for Meg to come out of the store. They shot her. And then they set fire to Bobby’s garage.”

Dean’s voice cracks a little towards the end. Castiel scoots closer, until their sides brush against each other. He raises his arm and wraps it around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him close until his head rests against the side of Castiel’s neck. “Sleep, Dean. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

With a small sigh, Dean relaxes against Castiel and closes his eyes. Castiel counts Dean’s breaths as they even out.

*** 

“Mr. Winchester? Mr. Singer just woke up. You can go see him now, if you like.”

The sound of the voice jolts Dean awake instantly, and he realizes that, some time in the past few hours, he curled up with his head in Cas’ lap. Cas is sitting upright, but he’s rubbing at a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth, so it’s obvious he fell asleep too. On the other couch, Jimmy is still passed out.

Dean looks up blearily to find a middle-aged woman in unicorn-patterned scrubs giving him an indulgent smile. “Take your time. Whenever you’re ready, he’s in Room 307. He might be a little groggy from the painkillers, but he’s conscious.” With that, she walks away.

Dean gives Cas a wary smile, a little uncertain still as to the current terms of their relationship. “I guess I should… do that.”

Cas runs his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt at getting it to lie flat. “We’ll wait here for you if you like. Do you need a ride home?”

Dean starts to shake his head, then remembers. “Damn, I didn’t even tell you. I met some detective from the LAPD yesterday, and she knew my name. Said she wanted me to come see her. So I gotta do that after I see Bobby.”

Cas looks blindsided. “Are they… are you being charged with something?”

Dean shrugs. He didn’t sleep very long, if the dull ache in his muscles is anything to go by. “I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. She said we were just gonna talk for now.” He reaches out a tentative hand. It lands on Cas’ thigh, and he squeezes gently. “I can’t really make up for what happened to Meg, Cas. Or to Bobby. But if I need to own up to my mistakes to make sure nobody can get to you, or to Jimmy… then that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Cas looks at him, face completely expressionless, for a good five seconds. Then he surges forward, both hands cupping Dean’s face, and pulls him into a gentle, lingering kiss.

When Dean moves away, he feels lighter than he would’ve thought possible a minute ago. “Always with the unexpected kisses.”

Cas shrugs as he runs the pad of his thumb across Dean’s scruffy cheek. “What can I say? It seems to be working well so far.”

Dean sits and lets himself look for just a moment at messy, dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes, badly worn clothes that are too big for Cas, but somehow do nothing to diminish how stunning he is. He wraps an arm around Cas’ shoulders and pulls him close. 

“Are we OK?” he whispers in Cas’ ear.

He can feel Cas’ smile against his neck. “Yes. I think we’re OK.”

*** 

Bobby is barely recognizable under a maze of wires and tubes, not to mention the landscape of swollen bruises distorting almost every inch of his face. Two different monitors are keeping up a steady cacophony of clashing beeps.

Dean almost walks right back out of the room, up until he hears a voice from among the equipment, rough and shaky, but unmistakable. “What’s wrong, princess? You never seen a bruise before?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “If the next thing out of your mouth is, ‘You shoulda seen the other guy,’ I’m leaving.”

Bobby hums darkly. “Three against one, one of ‘em Crowley himself. Didn’t think he’d wanna get my lowly blood on his precious Italian loafers.”

"Shit, really?" Dean closes the distance to the bed and collapses into the nearest chair. “Crowley was there?”

“Kicked me in the ribs, the douchewad,” Bobby rasps.

Dean watches the trickle of fluid leave the IV to the right of the bed, traveling in a steady drip down into Bobby’s veins. “You should press charges.”

Bobby’s eyebrow makes a brave attempt to rise above a swollen, discolored eye, but retreats on a wince and a muttered curse. “What now?”

Dean worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. “Bobby, you know about the garage, right?”

Even under the bruises, he can see Bobby’s jaw tighten. “I’m guessin’ it’s gone. They made me watch while they set fire to it. Lotsa flammable stuff in there. I doubt anyone was able to go near it till it burned itself out.”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks. “Don’t think there’s much left.” They both take a moment, listening to the steady whoosh and beep of the machines. Then Dean adds, “That’s what I mean, though. There’s nothing left for Crowley or Nick to take, other than our lives. And I’m not letting ‘em have those.” He swallows and tries to breathe around the leaden weight on his chest. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You were right, and I should’ve listened. I thought I did everything I could to keep Crowley from finding out about the job, but somehow he—”

“Eh,” Bobby growls. “All you did was make the least bad choice you had. Always knew gettin’ into business with Crowley was gonna end bloody for me one day. I’m glad it happened after I put up some savings, and that I’ll still be around to enjoy ‘em now.”

Dean runs a hand down his face, pulling at the skin. Maybe if he does it hard enough, it’ll help him control his insane urge to curl up in a corner until the entire world has passed him by.

When he feels a little steadier, he says, “Are you gonna do it though? Press charges?”

Bobby fixes him with a penetrating stare from his one good eye. “What about _you_ , boy? If I make a statement, there’s no guarantee the PD won’t get wise to what kind of work you’n me did with Crowley.”

Dean gives him a weak smile. “I’m going to the cops, too, right after this.”

“That’s good,” Bobby says, sounding softer than Dean’s ever heard him. “You tell ‘em what you need to, boy. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“Thank you, Bobby,” Dean says, just as softly.

“Yeah, yeah.” Bobby’s usual, gruff tone is back, and it’s kind of a relief. “Now get outta here. I need my beauty sleep.”

With a groan and a creak of tired joints, Dean gets up. As he passes Bobby’s bed on the way out, he stops. “So you put me down as next of kin, huh?” Bobby gives a non-committal grunt, but he won’t meet Dean’s eyes. Dean forces a grin. “You old sap.”

The sound of Bobby’s quiet chuckle follows him out the door.

*** 

The windowless concrete front of LA’s Central Community Station, streaked with bird droppings that look like they’ve been here since the place was built, is not exactly inviting.

A small group of men is gathered in the shade of a lonely, half-dead tree at the edge of the parking lot. One of them meets Dean’s eyes as he walks past, and Dean thinks he sees the flash of a snake tattoo peek out of the guy’s collar. But it’s there and gone so fast, it’s hard to be sure.

On the wall next to the entrance, a mural shows a faceless, backlit police officer surveying a colorful city street, stance broad and hands on his hips. Whatever the opposite of reassuring is, Dean thinks, that’s what this is.

The inside isn’t much better: more concrete and linoleum, all in various shades of grey or vomit green. A bored-looking female officer sits behind bulletproof glass at the reception desk. When Dean announces his name and that he’s come to see Detective Mills, her lips purse like he’s inconvenienced her, and she picks up her desk phone without so much as a word to him.

Dean’s almost ready to bolt when Mills finally emerges from a door to the right of reception, a friendly-enough smile on her face and her hand outstretched for Dean to shake. “Hey there. Thanks for coming in.”

Dean huffs. “Not like I had much of a choice, right?”

Mills chuckles, surprisingly loud and throaty. “You’d be surprised how many try running first anyway.” She turns and waves for him to follow her through the door, past a bullpen of small, cramped desks. A few of the occupants look up, most of them in various states of disgruntlement or sleep deprivation. 

Dean hunches his shoulders and keeps his eyes on the floor.

They come to a stop in a small, windowless room. Dean looks around. There isn’t even one of those big two-way mirrors you see on cop shows. Just a couple of chairs and a table, which holds a stack of manila folders that are bursting at the seams.

“Take a seat, Dean. Can I get you anything?”

Dean shakes his head, scanning the bare room. “Is it just gonna be the two of us?”

Mills gives him a curt nod as she sits and opens the topmost folder on the pile. “For now. Like I said, we’re just talking today. If nothing else, I figure you’re owed some answers. And maybe once you get those, you’ll be inclined to give me a few of your own.”

Dean sinks into the other chair, wincing a little at the hard surface. It almost seems like it was designed for deliberate discomfort. They probably don’t want people getting too cozy in here. “Answers about what?”

Mills doesn’t respond right away, but she studies Dean from across the small table, like she’s figuring out how to come at him. “We have an undercover officer embedded in Crowley’s outfit. He let us know Crowley was organizing a holdup at an electronics store a few months back. We got security footage that shows you behind the wheel of the getaway car.” 

Well, fuck. Dean remembers that job. He thought he’d parked out of sight of all the cameras, but he must’ve overlooked one somehow.

Mills shuffles through some of the papers in front of her, apparently checking something. “That was back in… January. It was enough to get a judge’s warrant to track you via your phone’s network and get transcripts of your calls and texts. So assume that any time in the past few months you were at the scene of a crime, we knew about it.” Dean hesitates, apparently long enough for Mills to read his mind. “And yes, we were tracking your burners too. Our undercover guy got us the numbers, and they’re connected to a network same as regular phones.”

Dean huffs, turning his eyes to the water-stained ceiling. His instinct is to deny everything, but that’s not why he’s here. He told Cas he’d own up to his mistakes if he had to, and he meant it. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“If you want a lawyer to be present, that’s your right,” Mills says evenly. “But what I said before is still true: we’re here to talk. Hypotheticals only. I’m not asking you to incriminate yourself just yet.”

Dean looks closely at Mills, watching her face for any hint of mockery or deception. She doesn’t so much as blink at the scrutiny. “Why now? Crowley’s been around for years.”

“That’s a damn good question,” Mills says, with a weary shake of her head. “The short answer is, this is a big city, with a lot of crime and a limited budget. We go after those who cause the most damage.”

Dean chuckles mirthlessly. “Yeah, like the low-level dealers on the corners. I’ve seen plenty of those picked up.”

“It is what it is.” At the incredulous look on Dean’s face, Mills adds, “Doesn’t mean I like it. Those kinds of cases are easy to charge and easy to close. Makes the department look good on a spreadsheet. But we’re not here to talk about the shortfalls of our criminal justice system, are we?”

Dean scowls, but favors Mills with a tilt of his head in acknowledgement. “Guess not.”

“The point I was trying to make is, Crowley was keeping the peace in his corner of LA, not dropping a lot of bodies or drawing much attention otherwise. But when we got word that this Nick guy was thinking of moving in on his territory, we knew it was a game changer.”

Mills pulls a couple of photos out of one of the folders in front of her and shoves them at Dean. They’re old mug shots, from the late eighties or early nineties at a guess. One shows a younger version of Nick, his trademark shark grin in place, but marred somewhat by a large bruise blooming across his cheek. Dean squints at the other picture for a few seconds before he recognizes a version of Crowley who’s not just younger but also much less put together. The bloody nose and swollen eye aren’t helping. He pushes the pictures back across the table.

“These two got history going back decades,” Mills says, “and when Nick showed his face in LA, it was pretty clear he’d try to go after Crowley’s assets. So Crowley’s case went straight to the top of the priority list. We figured we could keep things from escalating if we managed to remove Crowley from the board before Nick became too much of an issue.”

Dean snorts. “Great job with that.”

Mills looks unimpressed. “Things moved a little faster than anticipated. When we realized Nick was already moving in, we had our undercover guy in Crowley’s operation make some overtures so we could play both sides. He provided Nick with some information as a show of good faith.”

Something snags at Dean’s memory. “Like the names and locations of Crowley’s… hypothetical employees?”

Mills nods. “Yeah. That’s how Nick knew about you.”

Dean shakes his head, looking down at his hands on the tabletop. “Wonderful.”

“We expected you to stick with Crowley and stay out of trouble. By the time Nick was going to become a real issue, we figured we’d have the investigation all wrapped up.” She leans back in her chair and gives Dean an assessing look. “What we didn’t expect was for you to upset the apple cart by working a job for Nick. Especially as a favor to someone who, as far as I could tell, you’d never had contact with before.”

Dean looks down at his boots and says nothing. He’s still not sure what he should, or shouldn’t, be admitting to here.

When Mills speaks again, her voice is softer than Dean’s heard it so far. “Whatever Meg Masters was to you, Dean, her death is not on you. Crowley was starting to question our guy’s loyalties; we needed to come up with something to prove he wasn’t in Nick’s pocket. Some piece of information that Crowley could use to strike back, with minimal risk to innocent civilians.” When Dean looks up, Mills seems, for lack of a better word, regretful. “From what we got off your phones, we were able to piece together that you were about to work a job for Nick, at a remote location outside the city. It was perfect.” After a beat, she adds, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Dean swallows heavily, but it does nothing to keep his anger from boiling over. “You risked my life, you got Meg killed, all so you could, what? Add a couple more pieces of paper to your damn file?” He reaches across the table and flicks at the pile of folders. Only Mills’ quick reflexes keep the whole stack from sliding onto the floor.

“It’s my job to look at the big picture, Dean. And the big picture is that when people like Crowley are off the street, everyone’s safer.” Mills’ voice almost sounds pleading, like she wants Dean to understand. Dean’s not sure why she would bother. “What we were missing to get to Crowley was that final piece — the smoking gun, like they call it in the old movies. Meg’s death gave us that.”

Almost despite himself, Dean asks, “How so?”

“When he called you last night, he admitted to ordering a hit on Meg.”

Dean thinks back to the foggy, panic-laced hours of the previous night. “Holy shit,” he realizes. “He did. Is that enough to put him away?”

Mills tilts her head to one side, then the other, like she’s weighing her answer. “Enough to charge him, but it’s weak without testimony from you and your friend Bobby to back it up.”

Dean nods, thoughts racing each other in his head. “In a totally hypothetical situation, if I talk to you on the record, what am I looking at?”

Mills barely hesitates, like she’s been waiting for him to ask that question. “Neither you nor Bobby committed any violent offenses that we know of. You might be looking at some probation, but if you cooperate fully, I’m pretty hopeful we can cut you a deal that doesn’t include prison time.”

That’s a whole lot better than Dean dared to hope for, and he feels his face stretch with a reluctant smile. “Good. That’s good.” Dean’s thoughts turn to the black duffle bag still sitting in the trunk of his Baby. “What about Nick?”

Mills’ face falls. “I’ve gotta be honest. With Crowley out of the picture, there’s no turf war, so I doubt Nick’s gonna keep being a high priority for the department. Not unless he starts drawing a lot of attention to himself.”

Dean gapes at her in open disbelief. “What about Meg’s family? Her ex-boyfriend and son? Nick’s threatened them before.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re friendly with them, but with Meg out of the picture, I doubt they’re in any immediate danger. If I asked the chief to assign them a protection detail, he’d laugh in my face.” Mills stands, effectively dismissing Dean. “Think about what we’ve talked about, and come back in when you’re ready.” Before she opens the door, she turns back. “I really am sorry, Dean. But if Meg’s family can manage to stay away from Nick and his associates in the future, I think they’ll do just fine.”

With that, she opens the door, and Dean is left to contemplate his distorted reflection in the shiny linoleum floor. He’s not sure how long he sits there before he walks, unseeing, through the door and out of the precinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. What is Dean going to do? Surely, he won't try to sacrifice his own happiness to keep his loved ones safe. *backs away*
> 
> Next week: Dean has some serious thinking to do and a pissed-off gangster to deal with.


	6. Under Your Spell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? New chapter a day early? I have no excuses, other than I got done editing and, well... might as well put it out there, right?

Castiel should be sleeping.

He’s just returned from his morning shift at the diner, and exhaustion left over from his disrupted night is pulling at him, weighing down his limbs and eyelids. But instead of trying for some rest before it’s time to pick Jimmy up from school, he’s sitting at his dinner table, cradling a mug of coffee and waiting for the sound of Dean’s footsteps outside, in the corridor.

Several times, he pulls out his phone to check his text thread with Dean. He texted an hour ago, asking Dean to let him know how things went at the LAPD. He has yet to hear back.

So Castiel sits, and he waits.

Another half-hour passes, and despite the coffee, Castiel has started to nod off in his chair when the sound of a door slamming jolts him awake. He’s heard Dean enter his apartment enough times to be able to identify that little extra scrape where the wood of the door is warped and sticks to the frame.

It takes Dean a long time to answer Castiel’s knock, long enough that Castiel actually considers he might have been wrong about hearing him come home in the first place. But just as he turns to leave, the door opens, and Dean stands there, in jeans and a t-shirt, clutching a pair of neatly folded socks and an electric razor.

Whatever Castiel was going to say dies on his tongue. “Are you… packing?”

Dean ducks his head. “I… yeah. Kinda.”

Castiel frowns. “Wait, they didn’t… you said they weren’t going to charge you.”

“No, they’re not. Not yet, anyway.” Dean motions for Castiel to come in. “I’m gonna stay at Bobby’s house for a while.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Dean heads to the back of the apartment, where Castiel knows his bedroom to be. As they walk past the bit of open floor between the couch and the kitchen unit, where they had sex for the first time, Castiel looks the other way. There’s a sense of wrongness about this situation that doesn’t square with reminders of past intimacy.

On the bedroom floor is an open suitcase that’s already half full. Dean carefully places his burden inside, then sits at the foot of his bed, forearms resting on his knees. “We need to talk, Cas.”

“OK,” Castiel says slowly, seating himself next to Dean and hating the smallness of his own voice. “What is it?”

Dean brings up his hand to rub at his stubbled cheek. “The LAPD’s about to move against Crowley. I’m gonna testify against him.”

Castiel nods, trying to understand. “What does that have to do with moving to Bobby’s place?”

Dean looks down as he scuffs at the carpet with a bare toe. “I… I gotta stop seeing you, Cas.” He chuckles drily. “Not that we ever really got to start.” Dean takes a deep breath before he adds, “Anyway, figured it’d make things easier on both of us if I wasn’t hanging around all the time.”

Something jagged opens in Castiel’s chest, stealing his breath, but he forces it down for now. “I still don’t understand. Last night, we were fine. What happened?”

Dean turns to face the window. When he looks back at Castiel, his face is a little more composed. “Crowley’s not gonna be a problem much longer, but the LAPD basically told me they’re not going after Nick. I’ve still got the take from the pawn-store job in my trunk. Sooner or later, Nick’s coming for it.”

Castiel raises his hand, wanting to reach out to Dean, but halfway there, he thinks better of it. He’s not sure how welcome his touch would be. “But… you didn’t _mean_ to take the money, right? Surely, if you explain what happened and you return it, he… he won’t hurt you.” He meant to be reassuring, but his voice rises a little at the end, in question.

“Maybe.” Dean lowers his head, running both hands through his hair, before he continues. “But even if he believes me and lets me give the money back, I won’t be rid of him. When… when Meg and I met with him, he made me agree to work other jobs for him in the future.” Dean finally turns to face Castiel, and seeing the devastation in his eyes, Castiel almost wishes he hadn’t. “He’ll never let me out of it, Cas. Unless the LAPD takes Nick off the streets, I’m not getting away from him.”

Castiel nods, his mind racing to come up with a solution that will keep Dean from putting the rest of his things into the open suitcase that sits between them on the floor. “So we’ll be careful. We’ll only see each other here, not in public. At least until we figure out a way to get you out of this.” Castiel reaches out again, and this time, he doesn’t pull back. His hand lands on Dean’s where it’s resting on his thigh. 

Dean looks down at it, and shakes his head. “What kind of life is that, Cas? For you? For Jimmy? I can’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking anything of me,” Castiel says, quietly, inching closer to Dean until their shoulders touch. “You don’t need to.” Castiel’s other hand comes up to cup Dean’s jaw, stroking gently across the stubble on his cheek. 

Dean meets his eyes, a barely-there spark of hope flashing across the green of his irises. But then it’s gone again, and Dean pulls away. He gets off the bed and walks to the open door of his closet. His jacket is draped over it, and Dean digs in one of the pockets until he finds a small, glinting object. He returns to the bed and holds it out for Castiel to take.

“It’s a bullet,” Castiel observes. Dean has his back turned to him, looking out the window at the view of parking lots and billboards.

“Yeah, Cas,” he says, so quietly Castiel has to strain to hear him. “It’s a bullet. It was meant for Jimmy.”

Something cold wraps around Castiel’s heart. “What?”

“When Nick’s goons came to beat the shit out of Meg, they gave that bullet to Jimmy. Told him not to lose it.”

Castiel says nothing. He stares down at the small, copper-gold object in his hand.

“Those are the kinds of people I associate with, Cas. You still wanna sneak around with me now, huh?” Dean’s voice is rising, raw with anger, but Castiel can hear the streak of pain underneath. 

Slowly, he rises off the bed. He places the bullet on the bedside table and walks over to where Dean is standing. Dean flinches when Castiel’s hand lands on his shoulder, turning him gently until they’re facing each other.

“I’m staying at Bobby’s until the LAPD decides it’s done with me, and then I’ll figure something out,” Dean says thickly, unable to meet Castiel’s eyes. “You won’t see me again. It’s better this way. For all of us.”

Castiel nods, but he reaches for Dean’s chin, raising it until their eyes meet. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” he asks, moving into Dean’s space until their chests are almost touching.

“No,” Dean croaks. “I… I just hadn’t figured out how to do it yet.”

“I have an idea,” Castiel whispers, and he closes the last few inches of space between them. Their lips slide against each other, slotting together perfectly, like they were always meant to fit this way.

The faint scent of Dean’s aftershave fills Castiel’s nostrils, mixed with whiskey and engine oil and that unique, indefinable something that belongs only to Dean. Castiel thinks he could find him by that scent in the dark, in a room crammed full of other people.

Dean picks up the pace of their kiss, licking at the seam of Castiel’s lips. Castiel opens to him, and pulls at Dean’s shirt, walking backwards until the backs of his legs find the edge of the bed.

Castiel unzips his hoodie and slips out of it, throwing it unseeing on the floor as his tongue pushes into Dean’s mouth. He tugs at the hem of Dean’s shirt, trailing his fingers up Dean’s spine with soft, fluttering touches. Dean sighs into his mouth before he steps back and pulls his shirt over his head. Castiel’s hands slide reverently over the newly revealed skin of Dean’s chest, first his eyes and then his tongue following in their wake to caress the freckled skin. Castiel can feel Dean’s quiet, rumbling moan as a vibration against his lips.

Dean’s hands wander down Castiel’s sides until they come to rest on the belt loops of his jeans. Dean yanks on them, pulling their bodies closer together. Castiel feels the warm weight of Dean’s length, half-hard and pushing against his hip. He pulls off his own t-shirt, then meets Dean’s eyes, and the question in them.

“Cas, what do you… how do you wanna do this?”

Castiel keeps meeting Dean’s eyes, and is rewarded with a lovely blush when he says, “I’d like to be inside you. Is that OK?”

Dean’s eyelashes flutter against his pink cheeks. “I’ve never done… that. But, yeah. I’d like to. With you.”

Castiel feels a smile stretch his lips. “I haven’t either. But I… I’ve seen it done.” He’s sure his own cheeks are just as pink as Dean’s now, as he remembers late, lonely nights spent on the couch, watching the very small collection of DVDs he keeps carefully hidden at the back of a cupboard, out of Jimmy’s reach. “I’ll go slow. I won’t hurt you.”

Dean reaches up, carding a gentle hand through Castiel’s hair. The lines of his face are soft with tender melancholy. “I know you won’t.”

They discard the rest of their clothes and Dean retrieves a small bottle of lubricant from his bedside table, along with a box of condoms. He lies flat on his back, a pillow under his hips to allow Castiel better access.

When Castiel flicks the bottle cap open to coat his fingers, Dean inhales a shaky breath, and Castiel distracts him by bending down to lay a trail of open-mouthed kisses onto the soft flesh of Dean’s stomach.

He keeps moving lower until the stubble of his cheek rasps gently against the side of Dean’s now fully hard dick, dragging a low moan from deep in Dean’s chest. Encouraged, Castiel kisses up the side of Dean’s shaft. He wraps a hand around the base and licks across the tip, the salty, bitter taste of precome hitting his tongue.

“Cas.” The sound of his name on Dean’s lips has Castiel’s other hand traveling lower, between Dean’s cheeks, to tease at Dean’s rim with a slick finger.

He can feel Dean’s muscles tense below him, so he wraps his lips around the head of Dean’s cock, slowly sinking down.

“Fuck.” Dean’s breath comes in short, sharp bursts, but his muscles have loosened, and Castiel pushes the tip of his finger inside Dean’s opening. Dean exhales a heavy gust of air, and Castiel pulls off him, meeting his eyes. “OK?”

Dean nods fervently. “Yeah. Weird, but… but good.”

Castiel smiles and returns his attention to Dean’s cock, gently sucking on the tip as he slides his finger deeper inside Dean. He starts to push in and out, and revels in the string of low grunts and soft moans that falls from Dean’s lips.

Dean starts rocking down onto Castiel’s finger, meeting its motion with his hips. Castiel sits back on his heels to get more lube, and the sight of Dean below him, cheeks flushed and hair messy where he must have been pulling at it, is breathtaking.

“Ready for more?” he asks, his voice deepened even below its usual gravelly register by the arousal pulling at his groin and pulsing through his limbs. The heavy weight of his dick aches between his legs, begging for attention, but Castiel ignores it. For now, all that matters is to make Dean feel good.

Dean nods. “Yeah, Cas. C’mere.”

Castiel bends down to meet Dean’s lips, moaning at the friction when his neglected erection drags against Dean’s stomach. He slides his finger back inside Dean’s opening. Then, when he thinks Dean is accustomed to the sensation again, he adds a second. Dean tenses momentarily before he relaxes into the motion, rocking his hips gently as Castiel’s fingers scissor and stretch inside him.

Castiel gets lost in the warm, familiar taste of Dean’s lips as they move against his, the smell of sweat and intimacy filling his nostrils, and the touch of Dean’s hands where they travel down his sides. He rolls his hips against Dean’s thigh as he slides a third finger inside, the electric friction pulling a moan from his throat.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs into Castiel’s ear. “I’m good. Want you inside me.”

Castiel nods, nipping gently at the side of Dean’s throat as he withdraws his fingers. He sits back, hands shaking with a sudden bout of nerves. Dean’s hand comes up to take his, stilling him. “Hey.” Dean’s eyes meet his, a current of sadness running underneath their heat, and Castiel remembers that this is the only time they’ll get to do this. The knowledge feels like a stab to the chest.

Still, he forces a smile and reaches for the condom, pulling it on, then slicking himself up.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises again, and bends down to capture Dean’s lips, one hand on Dean’s chest until he feels the set of his muscles loosen.

Dean’s hands come up to cup Castiel’s ass, pulling him closer. Castiel hitches one of Dean’s legs up over his arm, then takes hold of his cock and lines himself up.

He watches as the head nudges at Dean’s entrance, listens to the rough, wanting sound tearing out of Dean’s throat at the sensation. He pushes gently, slowly, past the initial resistance, then slides inside inch by inch, watching Dean’s face for his reaction and trying not to be overcome by the warmth and tightness enveloping him.

Dean’s jaw is slack, his eyes glazed over, his breath coming in short, choppy pants. “Fuck. Holy shit. Fuck fuck fuck.” Dean’s muscles tense again, and, with an almost superhuman effort, Castiel stills.

“Still OK?” he asks, the growl of his own voice barely recognizable.

“Yeah. Good, just… it’s a lot.” One corner of Dean’s mouth ticks up, and he takes a deep breath. “Keep going.”

Castiel hitches Dean’s leg a little higher, into the crook of his elbow, supporting himself with one hand on the mattress as he slides deeper. With one last, gentle push, he’s all the way inside, and shaking with the effort of controlling himself.

Dean reaches up to trace the pad of his thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip. “Move, Cas,” he whispers. “Wanna feel you.”

Castiel nods, looking down at Dean’s chest, because if he keeps meeting his eyes, he’s not going to last. And he needs to. If this is the only time he’ll get to feel Dean like this, surrounding him and touching him and _all his_ , he’ll make sure it’s an experience Dean will want to remember for years. For the rest of his life, perhaps.

He pulls out, just a little at first, then gently slides back in, getting Dean used to the motion. After a few slow thrusts, Dean starts to cant his hips, meeting him halfway, and their bodies fall into an easy rhythm.

Castiel speeds up his thrusts until the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by Dean’s choppy grunts and moans, and Castiel’s own panting breath. “So good, Dean,” he hears himself say. “You feel so good.”

He does look up to meet Dean’s eyes, then, and the arousal and sadness he sees there are almost his undoing. “Feels amazing, Cas.” Dean swallows thickly. “Wish we could do this again.”

Castiel pushes in faster, shaking his head as he feels pressure building at the back of his eyes. “No, Dean… don’t. Don’t say that.”

Dean nods, blinking hard. “Yeah. Yeah, OK.” He pulls Castiel in for another kiss. The angle is awkward and their lips barely touch, but it’s enough. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Dean mutters. “We’re here right now. ‘s all that counts.”

Castiel nods, grateful, and he pulls himself up, adjusting his angle slightly. He knows the moment he’s hit Dean’s prostate, because Dean’s muscles squeeze around him, and a shout tears out of his throat.

“Fuck. God, Cas. Yeah. Right there,” he mutters, and then a never-ending litany of curses and praise falls from Dean’s lips as Castiel’s jaw slackens and heat pulls tight in his groin. He’s powerless to do anything but watch Dean come undone as his own climax hurtles up to meet him.

Dean reaches down between them, using the motion of their hips to fuck into his fist. He opens his mouth, perhaps in warning, but before a single word emerges, Dean’s release spills wet and warm between them, and every muscle in Castiel’s body contracts in response.

Raw, incoherent sounds escape his throat as he thrusts into Dean’s hot, pliant body through his orgasm. When the last shockwave has passed, he collapses into Dean’s waiting arms.

*** 

Dean’s not sure how long they lie in bed together, trying to ignore the steady progress of sunlight through the room that marks the passage of time. Eventually, with a groan at the tacky mess between them, Cas sits up and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s almost time for me to pick up Jimmy from school.”

The words Cas doesn’t say hang in the air between them, heavy in their finality.

_It’s almost time to say goodbye._

They take a short, perfunctory shower together, and Dean packs up the rest of his belongings. He takes only the things he’ll need day to day; he’ll have to come back to clean out the furniture and other bulky items later, probably with Bobby’s old pickup truck.

Cas sits on the bed and watches him, but they don’t speak. Eventually, Dean runs out of excuses to prolong the inevitable, so he zips up his suitcase and turns to Cas. “I should go.”

Cas nods, eyes not meeting Dean’s. “I’ll ride downstairs with you.”

As Dean locks up and heads to the elevator, Cas trails wordlessly behind him. They stand close, knuckles of Dean’s right hand brushing against Cas’ left while they wait for the telltale _ding._

They step into the cabin and settle at opposite sides, looking anywhere but at each other.

“We could leave town.” Cas clears his throat. “All three of us, together.”

Dean looks up. There’s wetness in Cas’ eyes, but it hasn’t spilled over. “Tell Jimmy I’m sorry,” Dean says, his voice cracking on the last word.

He puts down his suitcase and surges forward, ducking his head to touch his lips to Cas’, one last time. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket, balled into fists, to stop himself from touching. If he feels the warmth of Cas’ skin under his again, he’s not sure he can find the strength to walk away.

The warm, soft slide of Cas’ lips is intoxicating, and Dean lets himself get lost in it, until the doors open next to them with a soft chime.

“Well lookee here,” a voice drawls from beyond the doors. “Just the guy I came here to see. And… friend.”

Dean freezes and pulls back, the building heat from a moment ago turning to ice in his veins.

Nick stands right in front of the entrance to the elevator, hands in the pocket of his jeans. He’s wearing a sport coat over his t-shirt today, and Dean can just see the grip of a gun protruding from beneath it. He doesn’t think it’s visible from where Cas is standing.

“Well.” Dean steps back, swinging his arms awkwardly at his sides. Cas’ face is lined with concern, a silent question in his eyes. “Thanks, uh, buddy, that was fun.” The cheerful, airy tone of Dean’s voice sounds awful and wrong to his own ears, but he prays it’ll be enough to convince Nick. “I’ll make sure to give you a call some time.”

Dean picks up his suitcase. Then, with a finger-gun salute at Cas, he turns and walks out of the elevator. “Hey,” he claps Nick on the shoulder, like they’re old friends. Maybe if he pretends hard enough, it’ll defuse the situation. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve got something for you.”

Dean’s grin sits all wrong on his face, too sharp and too strained, but Nick grins right back at him. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Nick’s eyes slant down at the suitcase in Dean’s hand. “Going somewhere?”

Dean widens his grin until it hurts. “Just visiting a friend for a couple days.”

Nick nods in acknowledgement and puts a hand on Dean’s lower back, pushing him along into the parking garage. Dean tries not to flinch. As the elevator doors close behind them, he allows himself one last look back at Cas over his shoulder, hoping his eyes convey any number of things.

_I’m sorry it ended like this. Please don’t worry. I’ll be fine. And so will you._

Cas blinks, hard, and nods, and then the doors close.

Dean turns to face forward, forcing his head back into the game. “I've got your money,” he says. “It’s in my trunk.”

He points at his Baby, three rows down. “Good. That’s good,” Nick says. His hand is still on Dean’s lower back, pushing ever so slightly. “Let me see it.”

Dean digs out his keys and unlocks the trunk. He tosses his suitcase inside, then pulls out the duffle and unzips it, stretching it wide to show Nick the mess of bills inside.

“I haven’t touched it. It’s all right here.”

“Nice job, buddy,” Nick says, humming his approval, and Dean relaxes marginally. Maybe he can still get out of this. Maybe he really will be fine. “Let’s take it over to my car, shall we, and go for a little ride?”

Fuck.

Nick’s hand settles on Dean’s lower back again, and Dean fights hard against the urge to shake it off. Nick nods his head at a black BMW 740 parked in the next row, then finally, finally takes his hand off Dean. “Heads up,” he calls cheerfully, and tosses something at Dean, who catches it automatically. It’s a key for the BMW. Nick heads for the passenger side. “You drive, don’t you? Well, let’s see it.”

Dean considers running, but it’s no good. He remembers that glimpse of a gun, just below Nick’s jacket. He’d never make it to the elevators.

Fingers curling in a death grip around the key fob, Dean unlocks the car. When he slides into the driver’s seat and looks over at Nick, the barrel of a Smith & Wesson 9mm is pointed at his face. He swallows down his panic. “Hey, man, c’mon. You’ve got your money, right? We’re good.”

Nick smiles, canines glinting in the gloom of the garage. “Drive, Dean.”

Dean straps himself in, then pushes the start button, and the engine roars to life. “Where to?” he asks.

“Angeles National Forest. I know a lovely spot where we can have a chat.”

As Dean pulls out of the garage and into the softening light of the afternoon, his mind starts to race. The national forest is massive, more than a thousand square miles, and largely empty. He can see the appeal. If Nick leaves his body there, it might never be found.

They head out of town on the I-110, then merge onto Route 2, which takes them further north, through the sprawling hills of Northeast Los Angeles.

“I’m assuming this doesn’t end well for me,” Dean says, eventually, into the thick silence.

Nick chuckles. “I’d call that a good assumption. You’re not coming back from this drive.”

“Why?” Dean risks a quick glance over at Nick, carefully keeping his eyes off the yawning muzzle and on the darkly amused glint of Nick’s eyes.

“Turns out you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Dean-o,” Nick drawls, leaning back lazily against the passenger door. Dean notes that he isn’t strapped in, presumably for better range of motion in case Dean tries to stop the car and run. “One of my little birdies tells me you went for a visit to the LAPD this morning. Whyever would you do such a silly thing?” 

Dean licks his lips. His fingers try to twitch, but he forces them to stay curled around the steering wheel. “To testify against Crowley. Thought you’d be happy to see him put away.”

Nick huffs a laugh. “Good old Crowley. We go way back, the two of us, did you know that?”

“No,” Dean lies, figuring it’s in his best interest to keep Nick talking. Distracted. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

Dean watches the road in front of him narrow to two lanes, winding up into the hills as they approach the edge of the forest. There’s a gravel shoulder here, but no metal barrier. The downhill grade to their right is steep, but there’s a stretch just ahead where it evens out.

“We were business partners in Vegas, what, thirty years ago?” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Nick draw up one leg onto his seat, resting the gun on top of it. He’s still leaning against the passenger door. “Then Crowley decided a slice of the pie wasn’t enough for him anymore. He wanted the whole damn thing. Took out a hit on me, and it almost worked, too.” Nick’s voice tightens, something cold creeping in below the false joviality. “But I’m hard to kill, Dean-o. I built a loyal little army of my own, and I bided my time. When Crowley had a nice fiefdom all built up over here in LA, I decided the time was ripe to repay the favor and take all his little toys away from him.” Dean chances a glance over at Nick, and watches his grin widen until it’s almost manic. “That includes you, by the way, pretty boy.”

They’ve reached the stretch now where the grade looks manageable. Dean tries to picture himself back on the movie set, strapped into his racing belt and containment seat, the assistant director lowering his arm to give him the go-ahead.

With a yank of the steering wheel, he pulls the car off the road.

“What the—”

Whatever Nick was going to say gets cut off as the car hurtles across the gravel shoulder, then beyond it. Dean makes sure to keep the body of the car parallel to the rocky incline even as he pulls ever further down it, the grade getting steeper as he goes. Sharp rocks ping off the BMW’s bottom, and Dean’s stomach swoops when the left-hand wheels lift off the ground.

As the world turns upside down, Dean remembers the feel of Cas’ lips against his.

***

Dean drifts back to awareness slowly, the last rays of sunlight from beyond the hills making him blink, rapidly, to clear the spots from his vision. There’s an ache in his neck and a throbbing in his head, but all things considered, he’s OK.

When the spots are gone, Dean realizes that the BMW’s roof is badly dented, but it’s come to a stop right side up. Good. That should make it easier to get out.

Remembering Nick, he scrambles to undo his seat belt and get a look at the passenger side. Nick’s eyes are closed and his breathing looks shallow, but he’s still slumped in his seat. He must’ve found something to hold on to when the car flipped over. Goddammit.

A glint of metal in the footwell attracts Dean’s attention. The gun.

Dean lunges for it, keeping his eyes on Nick the whole time. Nick doesn’t move.

The air in the bent, dented car suddenly feels too tight, and Dean throws himself against the driver door, working the handle until he feels the metal give way beneath him.

He stumbles out, gripping the gun like a lifeline.

Nick is still alive. Nick wants Dean dead, and he’s still alive. Nick saw him kiss Cas, and he’s still alive.

Scrubbing at his face with the palm of his hand, Dean paces, trying to think, to form some kind of plan.

There’s only one thing that makes sense. He _has_ to kill Nick.

With Nick passed out in the passenger seat, it’ll be a whole lot harder to make it look like self-defense. But he can’t worry about that now. Dean takes a moment to mourn the fact that he left Jimmy’s bullet at home, on his bedside table. There would’ve been a certain poetic justice to it, using that bullet to end the threat to Jimmy’s life.

Breathing deep, Dean looks down at the gun in his hand. As he turns, something hard and heavy connects with his jaw.

Dean collapses onto the ground, the gun falling from his grip.

He looks up to find Nick standing over him, right hand still balled into a fist, two knuckles split and dripping blood onto the dusty ground. Nick’s breathing is labored, but his eyes are glinting with crazy joy. “Well, you just made this a whole bunch more fun, Dean-o,” he says, clicking his tongue. Dean works his jaw, just to make sure he can. It hurts, and there’s probably one hell of a bruise developing, but nothing’s broken.

He lunges for Nick’s feet, pulling them out from under him.

Nick goes down. Pursuing his advantage, Dean crawls up his body and pulls back his right fist, feeling the pump of adrenaline through his veins as his fist connects with the side of Nick’s head again and again, each impact a sickening crunch against his raw, tender knuckles.

Dean doesn’t know how it happens, but all of a sudden, Nick’s hands grab hold of his hips, and he rolls them over, Dean’s head connecting with something sharp as it hits the ground. He feels the skin of his scalp split underneath him, warm, viscous liquid seeping into his hair.

He blinks, hard, trying to quiet the swimming in his head and jolt the world back into focus. Vaguely, he registers Nick’s weight lifting off him, and the blurry outline of him walking away.

He’s going for the gun.

When Dean hears the click of the safety coming off, he works to compose his face into something like peace and closes his eyes. If this is where he dies, he’ll do it on his own terms: smiling, and thinking of soft blue eyes in the fading light of an early summer afternoon, lighting up as they watch the playground antics of a small, happy boy whose eyes are just as blue.

Despite himself, Dean flinches at the sound of the shot. His muscles tighten around the pain he expects to feel. 

It never comes.

Slowly, carefully, he blinks his eyes open, to find… no one. He sits up, groaning a little at the stinging from his head wound.

At the top of the hill, on the gravel shoulder, stands Mills, legs planted and gun pointed down. Dean follows the line of her eyes to find Nick, ten feet away, sprawled on the ground. There’s a neat, round hole in his forehead, and a thin trickle of blood is making its way from underneath his head, meandering between small, sharp rocks to meet the valley below.

Dean watches, dazed, as Mills slides carefully down the side of the hill. When she gets to him, she holds out a hand, pulling him up.

There’s a slight spell of dizziness as Dean straightens, but it fades quickly. “How’d you find me?” he asks.

Mills gives him a small, tired smile. “We got a frantic call from a guy, name of Castiel Novak. He insisted you’d been kidnapped. As luck would have it, we were still tracking your phone.”

Dean nods slowly, trying to process. Mills claps a steadying hand on his shoulder. “That’s a good friend you’ve got there.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs. “A good friend.”

*** 

An ambulance shows up, and Dean gets patched up right there, by the side of the road. They offer to take him to a hospital, but he declines. Instead, he asks Mills for a ride home.

When he gets there, he’s extremely tempted to walk upstairs and fold Cas into his arms. But he doesn’t get to do that. Nick may be dead, but his gang is still out there, and Crowley’s not behind bars yet. It’s better to stay away.

He settles for typing out a text from Baby’s front seat.

_I’m fine. The police caught up with us. Nick is dead. Thank you, Cas._

He watches as the little typing bubble appears, disappears, reappears. In the end, all he gets is a little smiley-face emoji. Dean smiles back at it, then starts Baby’s engine.

The drive to Bobby’s place is twenty minutes at most, and Dean has a spare key. He lets himself inside, thanking his lucky stars when he spots a pizza in the freezer.

After that, the days bleed into each other. The terms of Dean’s deal with the LAPD specify that he has to stay employed, so he takes a part-time job at another garage, just outside the city. He meets with his probation officer and works away at his community-service hours.

Bobby comes home from the hospital eventually, and Dean spends a good bit of his time helping him up and down stairs and in and out of his wheelchair. (Never to the bathroom, though. Dean learns his lesson about that after a single, extremely salty argument.)

A couple of times, they travel downtown together, to testify at Crowley’s trial. Once, Dean thinks he sees Cas’ messy, dark hair in the back of the courtroom, but he can’t be sure.

He gets a call from Mills. With Nick dead, she tells him, the LAPD is worried about an eruption of violence as rival factions fight for control of his gang. To avoid that outcome, the department is going to come down hard on Nick’s former deputies. After a few weeks, the last dregs of his organization are in the wind.

Crowley is sentenced to thirty years, with no possibility of parole. Dean thinks he should be happy about that, but he can’t get himself to be too happy about anything these days.

In late August, Sam comes for a visit, in between his summer internship and the start of the fall semester. Dean takes him all over the city, showing him all his favorite places. Wherever they go, memories of Jimmy’s laughter and the glint of Cas’ blue eyes follow him like a shadow.

Shortly after Sam’s visit ends, Bobby’s doctor clears him to start driving again. When Bobby gets back from his first solo outing and walks into the kitchen, where Dean’s just started to prep their dinner, he’s got a smug look on his face that spells trouble.

“What?” Dean makes a big show of swiping at his cheeks with both hands. “I got something on my face?”

“Nah.” Bobby’s grin turns nonchalant as he grabs a beer from the fridge, and yeah, Dean’s definitely in trouble. “Cas says hi.”

Dean’s spatula clatters to the floor. He bends down to retrieve it. “You went to see Cas?” He likes to think his voice doesn’t shake, but he might be fooling himself. “Didn’t know you guys were even on first-name terms.”

Bobby shrugs as he takes a sip, lowering himself into a chair next to the kitchen table with a grunt. “He came to see me at the hospital a couple times.”

Dean gapes at Bobby, the sizzling pan on the stove all but forgotten. “He did?”

“Mmm. Nice guy. He asked after you.”

Dean nods slowly, turning back to the range. He stares, unseeing, at the salmon fillets bubbling away in a bed of lemon-soy sauce. “What’d you tell him?”

“Told him you were still the same damn fool as always,” Bobby says easily.

Dean lifts his spatula, poking listlessly (and unnecessarily) at the fish.

“Ain’t you gonna ask how he is? And the kid?”

“Sure,” Dean croaks. “How are they?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Bobby raise one of his legs, grunting, onto the seat of the chair next to his. “Fine.” After a beat, he adds, “The kid misses you. Cas too, though he won’t say it in so many words.”

Dean hears Bobby take a deep breath and figures he’ll head the lecture off at the pass.

“Don’t wanna talk about it, Bobby,” he says flatly.

Bobby’s bottle hits the table with a heavy _clunk_. “Dammit, boy.” Bobby leans forward, and even though Dean’s still focused on his pan, he can feel that gimlet eye boring into the side of his head. “Crowley’s behind bars, Nick’s dead. So don’t gimme that bullcrap about protectin’ them. Who they need protectin’ from anymore, huh?”

Dean looks up, matching Bobby glare for glare. “Who d’you think?”

Bobby scoffs, throwing up his hands. “I swear, boy, if the next word outta your mouth is ‘me,’ I’ll—”

“No, listen.” Dean turns to face Bobby fully, sauce dripping off the spatula and onto the floor, but he’s past caring. “I might be off Crowley’s and Nick’s hook, but once you’re in this kind of life, you don’t just get out. What if there’s still someone from Nick's or Crowley's old gang left and they track me down, huh? What then? You think they’ll just let me go on my merry fucking way?”

“So you take Cas and the kid, and you leave town!” Bobby’s voice rises to fill the kitchen, and Dean does his best not to take an instinctive step back. “What you don’t do is miss out on your chance at a family because you were too chickenshit to give it a try!”

Dean clenches his jaw, hands balling at his sides. “That’s not—”

“Oh, don’t gimme that.” Bobby leans back in his chair, waving him off. “You’d think you would’ve learned by now that life don’t just throw good things your way. You gotta go out and get ‘em for yourself.”

Dean blinks down at the pan. He’s overcooked the fish, but at least the skin isn’t burned yet. He grabs a potholder and slams it down on the table, the pan on top of it. “Dinner’s ready. Enjoy.”

He stalks out of the kitchen and grabs his jacket off the hook by the door. As always, the rumble of his Baby’s engine calms him when he starts her up. He puts her in gear and starts driving, with no clear idea of where he’s going, or why.

The radio’s tuned to the station that broadcasts Clippers games, and there’s one going on right now, probably a rebroadcast, because the season ended months ago. In any case, the commentator might as well be speaking Chinese for all the information Dean takes in.

The streetlights paint streaks on Baby’s hood as he points her in the direction of downtown, taking turns at random. Out of pure habit, he checks his mirrors for squad cars every once in a while, but there’s none around.

He’s not sure when the Clippers game ended, but he becomes dimly aware, after a little while, that the radio’s playing a song now.

_I don’t eat_

_I don’t sleep_

There’s something familiar about the song, but Dean can’t quite place it.

_I do nothing but think of you_

Something about the soft, sad longing in the singer’s voice, the slow beat… with a jolt, Dean realizes it’s the song that played the night of Meg’s homecoming party. When he found Cas sitting in the corridor, nursing a lonely bottle of beer.

_You keep me under your spell_

_You keep me under your spell_

He thinks the song kept playing as they walked into his apartment, as Cas crowded into his space, as their lips met in a hurried, frantic kiss.

_I don’t eat_

_I don’t sleep_

He looks up at an approaching street sign. It’s Wilshire Boulevard. He turns right.

_I do nothing but think of you_

After another few blocks, he turns down La Cienega, and the squat Chase Bank building appears on his left, the Gas-n-Sip on the right. There’s a crappy old Continental in the parking lot, painted Jubilee Gold.

_You keep me under your spell_

_You keep me under your spell_

Dean gets out of the car. Through the window, he spots messy dark hair, blue eyes, and a scruffy face wearing a small, polite smile. He even thinks he can see a slight discoloration on one side of Cas’ vest, from that spill way back when.

Dean’s feet carry him inside, and the small bell chimes above him as he enters. Cas is busy serving a middle-aged woman who has her back turned to Dean. He gets in line behind her.

When the woman steps away, Cas looks up, the customer-service smile sliding off his face, replaced by complete shock. Dean tries for a grin.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Cas looks no more impressed by that line than he did the first time, at the supermarket. “I work here, Dean.”

“Yeah. Right.” Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other and digs his hands into his pockets. Maybe coming here was a bad idea.

“Why are you here, Dean?” Cas sounds tired again, defeated. Dean hates when Cas sounds like that. He shouldn’t ever be allowed to sound like that.

“Am I too late?” The words are out of Dean’s mouth before he’s fully processed them, but he may as well go with it now. He scans Cas’ face, hoping his eyes are telling Cas all the things he wants to say, but can’t. Not here, under the flickering, fluorescent lights, with a fussy, older man clearing his throat noisily behind him.

_Am I too late to get another chance? Am I too late to tell you I might be in love with you?_

For the longest ten seconds of Dean’s life, Cas says nothing. The guy behind Dean clears his throat again.

Then, Cas’ face cracks into a smile so big, it crinkles his nose. “Thank you for shopping at Gas-n-Sip,” he says. “Please come again.”

He leans forward, pulls Dean in by the collar and plants a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

Dean leans back and returns Cas’ smile, then turns to go. Behind him, the guy mumbles something about, “Strange idea of customer service they have in this place.”

Dean smiles all the way to the parking lot.

**END PART II**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there! There's only the epilogue to go now, and that's going to post on Friday. I'm super excited to tell you that it's going to feature some stunning, gorgeous art by the enormously talented [gabester-sketch](https://gabester-sketch.tumblr.com)!


	7. Oh My Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are - the epilogue! Thank you all so, so much for coming on this journey with me. 
> 
> I'm in love with the absolutely gorgeous art created by the very talented [gabester-sketch](https://gabester-sketch.tumblr.com) for this chapter. If you like it, please let her know!

**Epilogue**

_Oh my love, look and see_

_The sun rising from the river_

_Nature’s miracle once more_

_Will light the world_

_But this light_

_Is not for those men_

_Still lost in an old black shadow_

_Won’t you help me to believe_

_That they can see_

_A day_

_A brighter day_

_When all the shadows will fade away_

_– Riz Ortolani, Oh My Love_

A few months later, Dean, Cas and Jimmy move out of the city. It turns out Bobby has an old friend who runs a garage in a small town east of Sacramento, about an hour’s drive from Palo Alto and Sam. The friend is looking to retire, and Bobby puts in a call, letting him know there’s a promising young mechanic looking to stand on his own two feet.

He makes Dean sit in on the call, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever blushed so hard in his life. Unless it’s a few minutes later, when Bobby hands him a check with a substantial number of zeroes and calls it a startup loan. 

Dean tries to hand it back. Bobby threatens to smack him with his crutch.

When they pack up and leave LA, there’s very little sadness for what’s left behind. Instead, Cas throws himself into decorating Jimmy’s room in the two-bedroom house they’re renting in a quiet part of town, at the edge of the woods. They use some of Bobby’s loan to pay for a burial plot at the town cemetery, where they lay Meg’s ashes to rest one rainy fall afternoon. 

A few months later, they get a letter from Bobby, filled with pictures of toes in the sand on some Caribbean beach. The last picture on the stack is a selfie, taken by a middle-aged, kind-faced woman who has her arm around Bobby at what looks suspiciously like a tiki bar. They look happy.

As fall turns into winter, Jimmy makes friends at his new school, and Cas finds a job as a server at the town’s diner. In his free time, he volunteers at a local nonprofit that works with juvenile offenders. He likes the work well enough to start looking into what it takes to become a certified adolescent behavioral counselor.

Two years later, Cas walks across a small stage on the lawn of the local community college and shakes the dean’s hand, beaming and waving at Dean and Jimmy, whose whoops and whistles are attracting some very pointed stares, but Dean couldn’t care less.

Another few years after that, Jimmy comes home with a geography textbook and a head full of ideas about all the places he wants to see. That summer, Dean lets his two full-time employees take care of the garage and uses all of his considerable charm to ice Cas away from his job at the nonprofit for a month.

They hop into Baby (Jimmy in the back seat; he’s too big now to fit comfortably into the front between Dean and Cas), and Dean floors it, Jimmy cheering at the throaty purr of the engine, just like he always does. Cas scoffs, and tries to argue that his Continental is the more dignified car, but he gets shouted down.

They go see the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, and Big Sky.

One day, they find themselves standing at the top of a lookout spot, in the middle of nowhere, staring down at a clear, blue lake somewhere in Wyoming. It’s late afternoon, the sun just starting to sink below the horizon. Dean looks to his right, where the soft rays are painting the tips of Cas’ hair in gentle tones of gold. He looks to his left to watch Jimmy stare at the view, slack-jawed. He almost comes up to Dean’s shoulder now.

“This. Is. Awesome,” Jimmy says, sounding a little breathless.

Dean chuckles, and he feels Cas vibrate next to him with an amused hum. “Not gonna lie, buddy, it _is_ pretty cool. Way to navigate.”

Jimmy grins, pleased.

“Well, what d’you say? Where to next?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Wherever.”

Dean puts an arm around Cas’ shoulder and leans closer, whispering in his ear. “What about you, babe? Any ideas?”

Cas shakes his head, soft eyes still fixed on the view. “Let’s just drive.”

So they drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all!!
> 
> If you'd like to know what I'm doing next, you can [subscribe to me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta) on my author page. 
> 
> By DCBB fic is coming up on October 21! It's an urban noir story about journalists Dean and Cas investigating a series of mysterious deaths.
> 
> The week after that, I'll be posting my Halloween fic, "Vampire Hunter! Starring Castiel Krushnic". If enemies to lovers, awful vampire puns, accidental monster hunts and shipper Garth are your thing, I hope you'll give it a look!
> 
> I'm also planning to keep writing codas for the new episodes as they air, so keep an eye out for those.
> 
> My next WIP is going to be a screwball comedy AU with musicians Dean and Cas on the run from gangsters at a Florida resort.
> 
> Hope to see you there!

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please take the time to leave a comment, or even just kudos! I don't exaggerate when I say that comments from readers like you are what keep me writing!
> 
> If you really, REALLY liked this, here's a [rebloggable tumblr post](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com/post/632152786756304896/the-driver-now-complete-dean-winchester-is-a).
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com)!


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